


crisp bunches of honey and verbal annihilation

by sunbreaksdown



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Almost Perpetually, F/F, Future fics, Gen, Humanstuck, Inexplicably British, Multiple ships, Overprotective ectosiblings, Pseudo-Incest, Requests, Some AUs, Species Swap, Various stories, Zombies, grimdark tentacles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of non-sequential, sporadically updated, unrelated short fics written as requests over on Tumblr. Now with a table of contents in the notes!</p><p>--</p><p>Rose: Grow grimmer still.</p><p>--</p><p>Terezi and Vriska: Convince Kanaya she's a good auspistice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rose: Deal with spambot.

**Author's Note:**

> **Chapter 1:** Rose/Kanaya; Rose deals with a spambot, pesterlog format.  
>  **Chapter 2:** Kanaya, Dave (Rose/Kanaya); Dave gives Kanaya the “If you hurt her, I'll break your legs,” speech.  
>  **Chapter 3:** Aradia/Terezi; digging for dragon bones in Wales.  
>  **Chapter 4:** Vriska/Jade; their life together, Vriska being Vriska and Jade not taking any of her bullshit.  
>  **Chapter 5:** Roxy, Kanaya (Kanaya/Rose); Kanaya has a crush on Roxy's mother, pesterlog format, Humanstuck.  
>  **Chapter 6:** Aradia/Terezi; domestic stuff, bakin' cookies.  
>  **Chapter 7:** Rose/Kanaya; the two as immortals, and their relationship thousands of years on.  
>  **Chapter 8:** Vriska/Rose; hatesex, tentacle bondage. (nsfw!)  
>  **Chapter 9:** Kanaya/Terezi; building a relationship on the meteor.  
>  **Chapter 10:** Mindfang, the Dolorosa; the Dolorosa dealing – or not dealing, rather – with Mindfang's affections. (sfw, references to rape.)  
>  **Chapter 11:** Terezi/Vriska, Rose/Kanaya; in which Terezi convinces Kanaya to propose.  
>  **Chapter 12:** Rose/Vriska; homeless, Humanstuck, zombies.  
>  **Chapter 13:** Rose/Kanaya; species swap, pesterlog format.  
>  **Chapter 14:** Rose/Kanaya; gratuitous suitporn. (nsfw!)  
>  **Chapter 15:** Rose/Vriska; how they first met in [Almost Perpetually](http://archiveofourown.org/series/14516).  
>  **Chapter 16:** Mindfang/Vriska; Mindfang taking her frustration out on Vriska. (nsfw!)  
>  **Chapter 17:** Vriska/Terezi; bondage. (nsfw!)  
>  **Chapter 18:** Rose/Kanaya; mild body horror.  
>  **Chapter 19:** Kanaya♣Vriska♠?♥Terezi; Vriska and Terezi convince Kanaya she's a good auspistice. (nsfw!)

  


 

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 11:52

TT: …  
GA: Wait What  
GA: Weve Yet To Break Through The Temporal Barrier Of Midday And Yet Already Youre Baring Your Ellipses At Me  
GA: Despite The Fact That I Have Yet To Offer You So Much As A Single Greeting  
GA: Which Is Not Something That Has Occurred Or Rather Failed To Occur Through The Sort Of Treatment That Subsists On The Complete Lack Of Verbal Communication  
GA: Considering The Fact That You Messaged Me The Very Moment I Signed On  
GA: At The Time My Cursor Was Hovering Dare I Say It Salaciously Over Your Handle In My List Of Contacts  
TT: …  
GA: That Assault Of Unified Full Stops Was Because Of The Rambling Wasnt It  
TT: Well noticed.  
GA: Thanks Ive Become Accustomed To The Various Breeds of Lalonde Styled Ellipses Over The Sweeps  
GA: So What Is It  
TT: What makes you think it’s anything?  
GA: I Dont Know  
GA: Perhaps The Fact That You Chose To Initiate A Conversation With Dot Dot Dot  
GA: It Suggests That Something Is Bothering You On Some Level You May Not Otherwise Admit To  
GA: Did Somebody Leave An In Depth Analysis Pertaining To The Literary Faults Present In Your Fanfiction Again  
TT: Kanaya, please.  
TT: That happened once, and you’re vastly over-exaggerating the depths of my reaction. The simple fact of the matter is that they were wrong and I was right. Case closed.  
GA: Yeah Sure  
GA: So What Is It This Time  
GA: Ill Keep Asking Until You Answer And I Wont Even Put Any Variety Into My Questions To Make It Interesting For You  
TT: Technically, there’s notable variety between "So What Is It" and "So What Is It This Time."  
TT: But alright.  
TT: I feel, and if you’ll tolerate me recklessly unifying a whole spectrum of independent nuances and varied thoughts into a single, definitive answer:  
TT: Apprehensive.  
TT: I am quite possibly wringing my hands together as we speak, but I wouldn’t allow myself to be quoted on that.  
GA: Youre Diagnosing Yourself From Your Textbooks Again Arent You  
TT: No!  
TT: This is genuinely a feeling I find myself unable to shake.  
GA: And Theres More To It  
GA: Theres No Need To Tell Me That Was Well Perceived  
GA: I Already Know  
TT: Mm-hm.  
GA: Okay  
GA: I Will Just Remain Here  
GA: On The Edge Of My Seat Gripping At The Arms Of The Chair Trying Not To Spin On It Although There Is Some Enjoyment To Be Garnered From That  
GA: Waiting For You To Elaborate  
TT: Oh, fuck.  
TT: There’s no easy way to put this.  
TT: I’m being pursued by another, Kanaya.  
GA: Excuse Me  
GA: I Know Youll Find This Hilarious Lalonde But To Me It Looks Like You Just Wrote That You Are Quote Being Pursued By Another Unquote  
TT: I did.  
TT: I received the anonymous notification this very morning.  
TT: And I couldn’t not tell you, for reasons beyond me.  
GA: I  
GA: Well  
GA: How Was It Done  
GA: And What Did It Say  
GA: The Letter In Question Was Left Folded Beneath Your Pillow Wasnt It  
TT: Please. Human courtship doesn’t make itself known in the terribly romantic and unnervingly stalkerish ways that one attempts to woo another in your rainbow drinker novels.  
GA: Thanks For Not Using Trashy As A Descriptor  
TT: Don’t mention it. They’re an acquired taste.  
TT: Actually, in the pattern of these blustering days of electronic romance, I found the message in my inbox. Rest assured that nobody has sneaked into my bed chambers in your absence, through the tall, inevitably unlocked windows that neatly frame the unfurling storm outside, billowing curtains serving as the only evidence that they were there at all.  
GA: Im Somewhat Relieved  
GA: But Only Somewhat Because Well You Know  
GA: Hmm What Did It Say Rose  
TT: I won’t bore you with the whole sordid copy and pasting business.  
TT: But the overall message was a clear one: that they love my blog, but that isn’t all (!) because they are, in their own words, infatuated with me. Secretly, at that. What’s more, I know this anonymous individual, and have always known them to be shy.  
GA: Goodness  
GA: And How Does This Clearly Verbose Individual Wish To Move Their Idealised Relationship With You Onto The Level That Is Somewhat Elevated Above The One You Both Are Currently Stationed On  
TT: They suggest that I track them down on Facebook and make an acct [sic] there and view the body pix [sic] they posted. If I can figure out who they are (which one would sincerely hope I could, considering the link they provided to their own account, along with the promised photos), I am cordially invited to kick it with them.  
GA: Kick It  
GA: What Are You Going To Kick With This Enticing Stranger That May Not Actually Be A Stranger  
GA: Is The Kicking Of Various Inanimate Objects Something I Have Yet To Be Introduced To In Earth Courting  
TT: Rest assured, there will be no risk of me bruising my toes any time soon.  
TT: I’m simply being solicited for sex.  
GA: Oh  
GA: Yes I Can See Why Thats So Much Better I Mean I Wouldnt Want You Potentially Fracturing Something In Your Foo  
GA: What  
GA: You Are Simply Being Whated For What Rose Lalonde  
TT: I know you don’t really need me to copy and paste what I just wrote. It’s still on your screen. You don’t even need to scroll up.  
GA:

 

 

GA: Now I Do  
TT: Don’t you think you’re overreacting?  
GA: Dont You Think Youre Underreacting  
GA: Did You Ever Consider That Rose Did You  
GA: That Perhaps Your Carefully Sculpted Reaction May Not Have Reached The Heights Its Untold Potential Set It Up For  
TT: Once again, you put everything into a refreshing succinct, clear perspective.  
TT: Allow me to amend my reaction.  
TT: I’m being solicited for sex!?  
TT: Honestly, I can’t believe that verbs and nouns are colliding in such a preposterous juxtaposition.  
GA: Okay Better  
GA: So How Are You Going To Handle This  
TT: How am I going to handle this?  
GA: Right This Seems Like A Situation Where Prompt Handling Should Definitely Be Enforced  
GA: Its True Enough That You Already Have A Matesprit  
GA: As Made Evident By This Very Conversation Unfolding At This Very Moment  
GA: And Your Black And Pale Quadrants Are Similarly Occupied  
GA: Well The Nature Of Occupation Is Not Similar Obviously Because That Would Miss The Point  
GA: Rather The Mere Fact That They Are Occupied In The First Place Is Where I Am Making Comparisons Here  
GA: But That Only Counts For Troll Romance  
GA: You Still Have Your Human Sector To Fill Like Some Sort Of Additional Alien Fifth Quadrant  
GA: Or To Put It Better A Quintdrant Is That Even A Word  
GA: Shit  
GA: But  
GA: As I Have Been Told Many Times By Many Humans The Romance Native To This Planet Encompasses All Four Of Our Quadrants In Some Peculiar Way  
GA: Therefore It Would Be Of Little Surprise If This Became Your Most Important Romantic Entanglement  
GA: Especially Considering The Fact That It Is Native To You And Probably Tirelessly Etched Into Both Your Genetic Make Up And The Societal Values Your Subconsciously Hold Close  
GA: Meaning That A Girlfriend Im Assuming Your Admirer Is Of The Female Persuasion For The Record  
GA: Meaning That A Girlfriend May Well Outrank A Matesprit  
GA: Especially In Terms Of Domestic Dwellings Meaning One Thing And One Thing For Me Only  
GA: I Will Have To Give Up My Side Of The Bed Contraption That I Have Only Just Become Accustomed To In Favour Of This Smooth Talker You Have Caught The Attention Of  
GA: And With You Now Sharing What Was Once Our Bed With Your New Girlfriend I Will Be Forced Onto The Streets  
GA: Here Is An Obligatory Comment That Relates To My Being A Troll And Ending Up Living Under A Bridge  
GA: Shit  
GA: And Naturally This Will All Happen While I Am Out Of Town  
GA: I Knew I Should Never Have Visited Karkat  
GA: Lalonde Are You There  
GA: Its Just That I Finished Typing Several Minutes Ago And Yet You Havent Responded  
GA: Am I Already Too Late  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: I was making an omelette.  
GA: Well It Does Seem Like A Good Time For It  
TT: I had barely broken the second egg when the overpowering scent of ramble wafted into the kitchen.  
TT: But just so that we’re clear,  
TT: You do realise this is a spambot, don’t you?  
GA: Shhhh Rose  
GA: Youve Ruined The Whole Illusion  
GA: There Is No Need To Tip Your Hand So Early I Could Have Followed This Line Of Conversation For At Least Another Hour  
TT: I somehow don’t doubt it.  
TT: Unfortunately, extended periods of exposure to your evident jealousy over the mere implication that another could be interested in me could force me to end up describing such a phenomenon as "cute."  
TT: So I thought cutting it short was for the best.  
GA: Oh So Youre Just Assuming That Any Jealously On My Part Was As Genuine As It Was Contrived  
TT: You mean you don’t succumb to jealously? You don’t think that another could possibly desire me for scarlet solicitations?  
GA: Thats Not What Im Saying At All You Are A Beautiful Young Woman And  
GA: Okay Any Flattery On My Part Will Only Result In You Rolling Your Eyes So Far Back Into Your Skull That Only The Whites Will Remain Visible  
GA: Which Is Especially Unnerving To Me Considering That They Ought To Be Yellow  
GA: Anyway  
GA: There Are Times When I Feel A Sensation Akin To Jealously I Suppose Because Sometimes Its Difficult To Believe That You Would Pick Me Before The Rest Of The Population  
TT: Only because I haven’t met them all.  
GA: Oh Shut Up  
GA: But My Point Is That While I May Feel Jealousy From Time To Time Its Merely An Instinctive Reaction  
GA: I Know I Dont Have Anything To Fear Because As Dave Says  
TT: Stop!  
TT: I don’t want to know what my ectobrother says in relation to the two of us.  
GA: Too Late I Am Seizing The Metaphor He Directed At Me And Relaying It To You  
TT: Please don’t.  
GA: He Said That I Am Like  
GA: An Individual Who Has Consumed So Many Thesauruses That I Was Taken To Court For My Crimes Against The English Language  
GA: And As Part Of My Punishment That I Pled For In Favour Of Time Spent In A Jail Cell It Fell Upon Me To Create A New Thesaurus  
GA: Naturally There Was Only One Way This Could Ever Turn Out  
GA: Every Entry In This New Thesaurus Was For The Word Swag  
GA: And All Of The Synonyms Were Variants Of The Words Kanaya And Maryam  
TT: …  
TT: Dave said that.  
TT: Dave said that, using those exact words.  
GA: Im Sorry Was That A Question  
TT: It was a  
TT: You know what, never mind.  
GA: Youre Laughing Right Now Arent You  
TT: I will neither confirm nor deny anything.  
GA: I Think You Just Did Rose  
TT: Hush.  
GA: Well Karkat And I Are Now Deserting His Hive In Favour Of Pizza  
GA: Rest Assured That I Will Spend The Entire Time Distracted Thinking Of How I Can Win Your Affections Back From Anonymous Admirers and Their Wily Way With Words  
TT: They complimented my blog, Kanaya. You may have your work cut out for you.  
GA: Oh Darn  
TT: Indeed.  
GA: I Really Must Depart Karkat Is Literally Tugging On My Sleeve  
GA: And I Particularly Like This Shirt And Do Not Wish To Put It Through Any Undue Stress  
GA: So Goodbye I Will See You In A Few Days  
TT: Mm-hmm.  
TT: <3

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 12:34


	2. Walk of Shame

  


     Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you're currently sat opposite the man you once referred to as the Knight of Time, Coordinator Of Such Events, in the nourishblock of your matesprit's hive. In other words, there you and Dave are in Rose's kitchen, sat either side of the preposterously large table she has, considering how few people live in her preposterously large house. He's got a cup of coffee between his hands, the kind from a coffeehouse, not a kettle, and he cradles it like it's a lifeline, like it's the very centre of the conversation you're both about to participate in. He drinks in large sips, having just got off work, performing a, and you quote, “gig at a local dive.” You're not entirely sure what that sentence means, as is the case with so many that he speaks, but it sounds exciting.

     He's looking at you. He's trying to make it seem as if he isn't, head slightly bowed so that you shouldn't be in his direct line of vision, but he _is_ looking, even if the sunglasses propped up on the bridge of his nose make it impossible to discern his eyes behind them. Incidentally, dawn is barely breaking on a crisp November morning, but you don't point this out to him. Instead, you simply hold your own drink between your palms. Green tea for you, because Earth milk does bizarre things to your troll digestive system, and you can't abide the taste of coffee without it, even though Rose insists that it's the only way to really drink it.

     “So,” Dave says, taking a sip. The _So_ comes across in a way that suggests you know exactly what he means. Perhaps he's mistaken you for a mind reader.

     “So?”

     You probably would've come up with a better reply, had you felt more comfortable. In turn, you'd probably feel more comfortable if you weren't wearing the exact same outfit that graced your figure the day before. It's noticeably creased, and you thank whatever Earth god humans credit with the continued existence of their continuous hygiene that Rose nudged you in the vague direction of her shower upon waking up.

     “So.” This could go on for some time. “Hate to catch you during your walk of shame, but we need to talk.”

     The Walk of Shame? You blink, immediately committing the term to memory, as you do with so many odd, human phrases. With a frown that you hope doesn't predictably lead to a blush, you find it strange that a supposed Walk of Shame is part of the human copulation ritual. Fascinating, if not unfortunate. You wonder what part of it, exactly, leads to shame, and how you can hope to reach this destination on foot. As for his second, seemingly more important point, you wonder what the two of you could possibly have to talk about, and why it needs to be discussed before you've had the chance to return to your own hive, properly attend to your hair, and change into a fresh set of clothing. While you have no problems with Dave beyond his confusing syntax, the two of you aren't exactly wont to sit down and have a heart to heart, and you wonder if you're filling a John-shaped void in his life.

     Perhaps you should call John up and put him on the line. You believe this is the sort of situation that calls for affirmative bro action. But what if Dave wants advice on trollmantic matters? You're starting to feel as if Vriska's been spreading rumours of your incredibly helpful, non-meddling ways again. You're about to voice the fact that you'll happily speak to Dave at another time, and perhaps the two of you could have lunch together, when he finally removes one hand from around his coffee cup, raising it to effectively silence you.

     “If you hurt her, I'll have to break your legs. Sorry, but it's tradition.”

     He takes another sip, louder this time.

     In troll society, this threat would be taken to heart, and in troll society, threats are as solid as actions. It takes you a good moment to recall that firstly, you're not in troll society and haven't been in some sweeps, and secondly, that you're a rainbow drinker who stands at least a head taller than Dave. That's not even taking your towering horns into consideration, and you're quite certain that you could hold your own against him. So rather than feel threatened or otherwise made uncomfortable by Dave's sudden, brash statement, you're simply perplexed. You've been perplexed since the moment you crash landed on the recreated Earth, so it's not too hard to deal with, even when it's not yet seven in the morning.

     “If I hurt her?” you question blankly, but then become very, _very_ aware of both the gleaming fangs jutting out over your lower lip, and the fact that you're glowing far brighter than you ought to be. Oh, god, how does he know about that? Certainly, there are bite marks on Rose's neck, but Rose always wears scarves in the company of others. And it's November, the early stage of Earth's cold season. There's absolutely nothing suspicious about wearing a scarf in November, and if Dave can wear sunglasses inside, then Rose can do the same with her own chosen fashion accessory. In an attempt to convince yourself that you're grasping at the wrong end of the accusation stick, you instinctively draw your fangs back behind your lips, but then your mouth feels far too full. You imagine that the fangs stand out all the more in your attempt to hide them.

     You see Dave's brow furrow over the top of his glasses, beneath his messy blond hair, as he tries to work out what the hell you're doing. He goes through a brief spate of bemusement, and then something in his expression twitches. If he was anyone else on this planet, anyone other than a supposed “COOL K1D,” you imagine that the half-empty coffee cup would go flying over his shoulder as he let out an undignified yelp. He seems rather distressed, and oh god, he wasn't even _thinking_ about you drinking Rose's blood until you brought it up.

     “No,” he says, and he says it very firmly, mouth twisting into unflattering shapes. It reminds you of the first time Karkat attempted to devour an entire bag of Super Sour Haribo. “I don't want to hear about your kinky vampire games where Rose is your willing victim, only she doesn't know that much yet, or—”

     He puts the coffee cup down, throwing his hands into the air. You clear your throat, look anywhere but at him, and decide that a subject change would work wonders for the both of you. You're suddenly so tense that the tea cup might shatter in your grasp.

     “Okay. We've established that I'm not going to discuss that thing you don't want to hear about, seeing as it appears to cause you undue distress. However, if such physical harm isn't the sort you are referring to, then I'm afraid that in spite of my constant, unwavering glow, I am left entirely in the dark. Much like your eyes behind those unnecessary but surely ironic sunglasses.”

     You still don't understand this irony thing.

     “ _Emotional_ harm,” he says, putting a rare bit of emphasis on that first word, like he's still convinced it's a concept trolls can't grasp. “I don't want you making her swoon and then going to mack on Terezi, or not buying her flowers or snarking with her enough, or whatever the fuck it is that you flighty broads do when you're not chewing out thesauruses.”

     You stare blankly at him from across the table, and think to point out that of course you'd never emotionally hurt Rose, because she's your matesprit, not your kismesis. However, you're far too tired of discussing the various quadrants with humans who seem to purposely fail to understand even their most basic tenets, and decide to look at this from a human perspective.

     “And this bizarre practise of threatening to fragment the series of bones that allow me to function in a bipedal manner is a tradition?” you ask, somewhat sceptical. You wouldn't be surprised if the supposed tradition was created five minutes ago by Dave himself. “Some sort of preventive measure to ensure that no harm comes to the one person who I would protect before all others. I see.”

     Dave heaves a great sigh like you're the one not making sense in this conversation, and drums his fingers irritably against the edge of the table.

     “Look, Maryam. I know you're not going to _hurt_ Rose,” he says, using airquotes to make light of the point, as if he wasn't the one to bring it up in the first place, “And trust me, I don't want to be doing this. Like I said, it's just tradition. I've got to do it, as her brother.”

     Oh. It's another of those sibling things. No wonder you'd failed to grasp at the heart of the matter until now! There's still so much you don't understand about siblings, or any human relationships, really. You've tried observing the habits between Rose and Dave, as well as John and Jade, but you're told that they're atypical examples of brothers and sisters. In lieu of an actual example before you that you can learn from, you've taken to reading Earth literature and watching Earth movies. From what you can tell, humans are sexually repulsed by their siblings, as well as other close family members. You don't really know why. Someone tried comparing it to a troll-lusus relationship, but you considered it to be a moot point. As far as you know, trolls and lusus aren't even anatomically compatible.

     “… ectobrother,” Dave adds after a moment, fiddling with the arms of his glasses. He's been doing that a lot, this last sweep. Calling himself Rose's brother, rather than ectobrother, and then quickly correcting himself. You wonder if this has some sort of familial relevance, even if the _ecto_ title shared between the two of them suggests that they aren't like that majority of human siblings who come from the exact same in-built incubation system that human females are in possession of. You can't really say for sure, but you still find it endearing.

     “I see.” You don't understand a damn thing. “Then I will do my utmost to refrain from hurting Rose, and in turn, you will do me the favour of leaving all four of my limbs intact. And, naturally, I am only refraining from treating Rose badly because the weight of your declaration to inflict bodily harm upon my frame in retaliation for acting out the aforementioned scenario that leaves Rose's human cardiovascular organ aching has left me terrified. Is that what I'm supposed to say?”

     Dave lifts his cup back to his lips, nonchalantly taking a sip. You're certain that it has to be empty by now, unless it's defying the laws of physics in some way.

     “Yup. Glad we had this conversation.”

     He leans back in his chair so that the front two legs lift off the floor. When a handful of moments pass and he hasn't said anything more to you, or so much as glanced your way, you very slowly push your chair out, cringing when the legs scrape across the tiled floor. You make your way to your feet without him continuing the conversation, but don't move away immediately.

     “Then I will continue my Walk of Shame, and return to my own hive. Using my two working legs, that I am very grateful to have, and intend to ensure that they remain that way.”

     Dave gives you the briefest of nods, glad that you're taking his lecture to heart. When you finally dart away from the table and out of the kitchen, letting out a heavy breath that you didn't realise you were even holding, it occurs to you to wonder if Rose was a part of this strange hazing ritual, and if so, just how much amusement she garnered from it all.


	3. Obligatory Sheep

  


     There are many strange things said about Earth, and amongst all that you don't understand, you've yet to come to grips with how a season can be promised to you. _A promise of spring_ , you've heard the humans say, as if it isn't destined to roll around with the sweeps of the sun without some express assurance. Mortal intervention isn't needed, and neither is your own, though you've yet to figure out whether or not your godhood brings divinity along with it. This declaration of the changing of seasons seems to you to be nothing more than a milky reflection of the early stages of Alternia's dim seasons; there is drizzle in the air, making the grey of the landscape seem like static to your eyes. The clouds cover the sun until it is only a pale, blanched disc in the sky, and as you breathe in the scent of damp grass and curl your toes in your boots, socks already soaked, you think: this is not Alternia.

     It's been three sweeps since you last set foot on your planet, and yet you still quantify everything in terms of it being unlike your sun-scorched world, unfaithful to the reality you grew up with. You tell yourself not to have such a narrow view of the expanding universe around you, because you weren't even _alive_ the last time Alternia came into the equation. You did little in the way of stomping against its surface, anyway. It was more of an otherworldly hovering, spooky-white eyes thrown in for free.

     So here you are, high on a hilltop in a little Welsh town you didn't have the time to read the name of, wishing you'd taken Terezi up on her offer of one of her favourite human inventions, the Wellington boot. At least you had the sense not to turn down a raincoat, and she just so happened to have one in a rather striking shade of red. You've never particularly cared to dress in the colour of your blood, and this weather would probably make it rustier than ever before, but this shade's a little too bright for that, anyway. It reminds you the outfit bestowed upon you when Derse fell and you ascended. The one you were happy to find was not, in fact, tied to you as part of your new found immortality.

     “Okay,” you say, tugging at the chords dangling from the base of the hood, causing it to tighten around your face. You had to wrangle with the horn-holes a little, but it's more or less a perfect fit. “What are we doing out here again?”

     From the shovel you have in one hand and the lines Terezi has scored out in the wet mud, you already have a fairly accurate idea of what you're doing, and you're asking questions you know the answer to for the sake of asking. Because, all things considered, this is bizarre. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable, because something tells you it would be difficult to feel that way around Terezi. Once you became accustomed to the personal space invasion and constant licking, there honestly wasn't much that could've successfully perturbed you. You got used to her ways long sweeps ago, back when you used to play games, and _that_ right there is what makes this feel so unusual.

     Not being on another planet, in another universe, as an immortal, but because you're out adventuring with Terezi again. You may have never been on the same side, but even through your friendly rivalry, there was an unspoken camaraderie there.

     You _think_ this is an adventure, at least. A bleatbeast attempted to chew on the pocket of your raincoat on your way up the hill, and that right there has to count for something.

     “Adventuring!” Terezi declares and confirms in the same word, stomping one foot on a conveniently placed rock. The other foot slides, squelching in the mud. She entertains herself in answering you, teeth like shards of shattered glass welded back together to form a grin. After a moment, she leans forward, as if debating whether or not she should share such information with the poor troll she's dragged half way across the globe. Which, admittedly, isn't as great a journey as it sounds, considering all the transportalisers employed. “—in search of dragons.”

     Mouth slanting to the side like one of Terezi's angular smilies, you hoist your shovel up, spearing the earth with it. The constant drizzle makes it easy to sink into, and you fling a dent's worth of mud over your shoulder. _Dragons_. Of course it has something (everything) to do with dragons. When your eyes crease at the corners, belatedly alerting you that your sceptical expression has become something warmer, you shake your head, staring down at your ruined red boots as you idly dig. Dragon _bones_ , she means.

     “I don't think we're going to find any dragons here,” you tell her, but keep digging anyway. Terezi hears the sound of metal meet mud, hears your breaths become measured and heavier, but that isn't enough for her.

     “Of course there are dragons! Do you think I'd go anywhere unprepared?” Yes, you do. Terezi's been wanting to take a weekend trip to the moon, ever since Dave informed her it was made of cheese. “Just look at the flag! Flags don't lie, Megido.”

     She's using your surname. This must be serious. As you consider the pros and cons of pointing out that you don't think flags possess the moral core or the intelligence to come to grips with the concept of lying, Terezi slings her backpack off one shoulder, and begins rummaging through it. She tugs out a handy Welsh flag, uses both hands to hold it out to you, and you circle one finger in the air, lips parting the slightest amount. You promptly decide not tell her it's upside down, because it probably all smells the same to her, anyway.

     “Then we're digging for dragons,” you announce, wishing you'd had the foresight to bring one of your hats along for the trip. Another reason why you didn't claim the title of Seer. “Or I'm digging for dragons, while you stand there, smelling. Why aren't you helping? This is your project!”

     Terezi stabs her cane into the hilltop like she's claiming the land for herself, removes her glasses, and begins wiping the drizzle off them with the hem of her shirt. There's a slight pause, like she's planing something, and for a moment you're left waiting for another flash of her teeth.

     “Because I'm blind, and you're a god!” is all she says, and you roll your eyes to deflect a roar of laughter that follows the statement. You then wonder if it's insensitive of you, because she clearly can't do the same, but two hours later you're six foot into the hilltop, covered in mud that's somehow managed to gather behind your horns, and you don't _care_ about how you come off.

     You know enough about archaeology and excavation to have a fairly solid idea of what you're doing, but it's hard to keep all the contexts in check when storm clouds have broken overhead and everything's slowly tumbling in around you. You've yet to find a single dragon bone (Terezi asks every five minutes, like clockwork), although you did find a bottle cap (which, after being asked repeatedly by Terezi, you deemed to be utterly worthless) and what appears to be the chewed up sole of an old boot. Half an hour ago, Terezi concluded that the culprit must be D3V1L1SHLY WOOLY 1N N4TUR3, and went off to interrogate the local fauna, intent on getting justice for the poor, mangled footwear. You have no way of telling whether it was a nice boot or not, but if it was the former, then you think Kanaya might be a little proud of Terezi right now.

     Pulling the hood of your raincoat back, because it stopped being of any use as soon as the wind picked up the rain and sprayed right in your face, you stare up at the opening of the hole you've been working on, as if there's no way out without Terezi's help. Your wings shuffle uncomfortably after several hour's restriction under the tight, plasticy material, and you consider using your lowblooded powers to tear the hillside apart.

     But lately, you've found that destroying things just isn't as fun as getting the job done with your own two hands.

     On cue, Terezi Pyrope leans over the hole. With it not being terribly deep, her bowing forward means the two of you are more or less face-to-face; and this in turn makes it difficult to react quickly enough when Terezi decides that leaning forward isn't enough for her, and flat-out falls on top of you. God or not, your thoroughly ruined boots succumb to a lethal combination of gravity, an inch of water slowly seeping into the newly uncovered dirt, and blind troll. You keep on sliding even as you hit the ground, Terezi atop you, clinging, so that her raincoat on yours doesn't cause her to shoot off. All of a sudden, you regret your decision to pull your hood down, and your wings crease uncomfortably beneath you.

     But you don't move. You look up at Terezi, hands at her hips to steady her out of basic necessity, but you don't move. Terezi's never been a snob, even with blood that would've been deemed worthy of servitude in the courtblock, back on Alternia, and so it's not the fact that she vastly outranks you that keeps you flat on your back in the mud as the rain around you gradually falls harder and harder.

     She's had you pinned like this before, but that was during a Flarp session; that was a game, and this, you think, is your life now. It's been sweeps, so many that you're slowly starting to count time in years, as well, and yet none of you really know what to do with the reality presented to you. With Terezi pressing down on you, it's hard to think of anything that doesn't consist of _This isn't Alternia, this isn't where I'm from_ , and yet at the same time you think: _And why should that matter?_ You may have never stopped thinking of yourself as a rustblood in your most private moments, but there are none here who treat you like the lowest of the low because of what runs inside of you. With only twelve trolls left in the known universe, it's all the more difficult to care about colour.

     You smile softly, to yourself, and like to think that it would be for Terezi's benefit too, if she could see the expression. Her glasses are askew and her hair is matted to her face, messy. Deciding that she's steady enough where she is, you loosen your grip enough to lift one hand to brush her hair into place, pushing her glasses back, so that they rest atop her head. There's something you like about the red of her eyes, and you hope there's nothing narcissistic in it. A drop of water runs from her forehead, down to the tip of her nose, and lands on your lower lip.

     When Terezi breathes out, the cold afternoon air coils around her lips, visible as it rushes from her nostrils. If it's dragons she's after, she need search no longer. There's something horribly dangerous about her, something the others tend to overlook, but you've never stopped sensing it for a second. You've never been scared of it for a moment, either. The mind behind that cutting smile of hers has been responsible for countless deaths, back when Team Scourge was something to be feared more than it is now; Team Charge never took the lives of strangers between their hands like that. You wonder who you're kidding in trying to compare the both of your past actions, because there could never be any justification to accompany any of your hypothetical slaughters.

     It doesn't surprise you when Terezi leans down to lick you.

     It does, however, make you feel more uncomfortable than the mud that's seeped between your skin and shirt when her tongue trails a path across your teeth. You squirm, but she places her hands on your shoulders, laughing onto your lips, breath warm in the cool air. Your teeth have always been embarrassingly dull, no matter how you convinced yourself that fangs would grow through in due time, and barely even seem troll-like in nature. They're nothing compared to Terezi's, which, you realise as your heart picks up the pace, are startlingly close to your chapped lips. You heard enough comments about them growing up, and you're something close to embarrassed as she happily licks at your teeth, front and back, until she leans back and announces that they are D3L1C1OUS, like P34RLY WH1T3 P3PP3RM1NTS.

     With that, Terezi finds her way back to her feet, and begins to detail in length how pleased she is with this site, and that she wants to call it TP-413. Despite the fact that it isn't creative at all, despite the fact that four-hundred and twelve digs didn't proceed it, despite the fact that your initials deserve to be in the name. You don't really hear what she's saying, though. Not clearly enough to formulate a response, anyway, and so you simply wipe the rain from your face, rub at the bridge of your nose, and hoist yourself out of the hole so that you can help Terezi out.

     She takes your hand, then pushes herself out with more force than is necessary. You're not sure what you're expecting to happen next, but with a smile that would send a shiver down the spine of His Honourably Tyranny himself, she reaches down for her bag and whips out her flag again. This time, she holds it the right way up, before carefully wrapping it around your shoulders.

     You regard her with a soft, curious expression, running your own tongue over your teeth, behind your lips. Tightening the Welsh flag around your shoulders, you lean forward to kiss her cheek, and wonder how, exactly, you're expected to come to grips with Earth when you don't even understand the first thing about Terezi Pyrope.


	4. oh noooooooo

     “Hey,” she says, chews her thumbnail, and absent-mindedly tacks on, “—fuckass,” after a moment's pause.

     There's no spite in it. Any roughness that might've lingered in her tone is washed away in the aftermath of a yawn. Which is a pain, honestly, because kismesissitudes are easy to write off. Bemoaning them is practically one of the unwritten rules of the whole arrangement, and something you grudgingly have to admit to not having the pleasure of being acquainted with. At first, she said _fuckass_ like she genuinely thought it was some sort of common, culturally accepted greeting amongst your kind, but now she only uses the term because it's worked its way into her vernacular. It's not too bad, so far as pet names go. Rose calls Kanaya darling, sometimes, and while you're mostly certain that she only does it to be ironic, you couldn't stomach the sound of it yourself.

     She sits at a workbench, half in the kitchen, half out of it, intersecting the gaping hole in the wall that she _accidentally_ blew there a few months ago. You pour yourself a coffee that you have no intention of drinking, and she doesn't look up as she tinkers with a few stray wires and a mangled circuit board, which you expect will become part of a transportaliser, metamorphiser, formuliser, appearithingamajig, or whatever it is she's trying to create via highly scientific explosions this time. Her heels rest on the edge of the bench as she works, screwdriver caught between her back teeth, tongue poking out as she concentrates.

     Sunlight floods in the kitchen window and doesn't blister your skin, and once again, it's another gorgeous day out there. You stretch out your arms and wings in the same motion, take a deep sniff off the coffee, and then pour the whole mug down the sink. On your way to the refrigerator, the one you're pleased to note no longer contains any transdimensional warp holes, you ruffle her hair, two fingers idly scritching behind one of her additional ears. It twitches, and she lights up with that one smile which never fails to make you glad you live a billion miles from the rest of civilisation. You wouldn't want anyone thinking you'd gone soft.

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and sometimes, you wonder how the hell you ended up with Jade Harley for a matespirt.

*

> gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering arachnidsGrip [AG]
> 
> GG: vriska??  
> GG: are you there?  
> GG: :(  
> AG: Ugh. Don't say it.  
> GG: oh nooooo  
> AG: G8ddammit!!!!!!!!  
> AG: I said not to say it.  
> GG: i know that but i cant help it vriska  
> GG: oh my god im so sorry  
> GG: SO sorry  
> AG: Uh yeah, you'd 8ETTER 8e sorry. I've had it up to here with your stupid no-good lousy one woman disaster la8. You're not even a scientist, Harley, and I say this as a troll.  
> AG: Do you think we have qualifications? Or universities? Or anything dum8 like that????????  
> AG: No.  
> AG: No we don't!!!!!!!!  
> AG: So this coming from me is a 8ig fucking deal.  
> GG: i know im not a scientist or anything smart like that  
> GG: we cant all be rose  
> AG: Thank god.  
> GG: but im doing my best with what i have  
> GG: sometimes there are just errrr......  
> GG: technical difficulties   
> GG: >_____>   
> AG: I  
> AG: Do you have any fucking idea where I am, Harley????????  
> GG: ummmm...  
> AG: Wh8tever.  
> AG: When are you transportalising me 8ack?  
> GG: ummmmmmm...........  
> AG: Fuuuuuuuuck.  
> AG: I knew it.  
> AG: Karkat was right and I don't even care if he knows I said that. In fact, I h8pe some8ody tells him in gr8 detail!  
> AG: Interspecies sloppy makeouts are just not worth it. I a8solutely refuse to take this any further, 8ecause not only do I have to live on this goddamn island in the middle of nowhere, I end up with the most a8surd m8sprit on this whole 8ackwards planet!!!!!!!! Who not only regularly causes grave collateral damage to our hive, 8ut also treats me like a la8sewer8east and “accidentally” teleports me to random parts of the glo8e!  
> AG: 8ut I shouldn't 8e complaining.  
> AG: I should 8e gr8ful.  
> AG: Gr8ful that she's not so retarded my think pan ended up disintegrating while I was being dematerialised for teleportation.  
> AG: Or that I came out the other side with all my lim8s in the right place and two horns on my head.  
> AG: 8oy!!!!!!!!  
> AG: It sure takes me a loooooooong time to count my 8lessings each and every day.  
> GG: vriska  
> AG: Shhhhhhhh.  
> AG: I'm not done yet.  
> GG: yes you are  
> GG: look i know youre upset that i kind of sent you to the wrong place but you offered yourself up for this!  
> GG: and you want me to iron all the kinks out so we can visit the others easier, right?  
> GG: so do you think you could maybe.........  
> GG: shut the fuck up for once?????????   
> AG: Jegus Harley.  
> AG: At least use 8 of them. ::::(  
> GG: no!!  
> GG: not until you stop insulting me and stop acting like youre going to leave or something  
> AG: 8luh 8luh 8luh 8luh 8luh 8luh 8luh 8luh  
> GG: wow vriska its like you want to make this harder for me  
> GG: im working on getting you back!!!  
> GG: and you dont want me going to extremes do you.......  
> AG: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.  
> AG: (I went to the effort of putting a space 8etween each ha to show how funny it isn't.)  
> AG: It won't work.  
> GG: well just have to see about that!  
> AG: Try me H8rley.   
> GG: <3  
> AG: Nope.  
> AG: No good.  
> AG: I'm impervious.   
> GG: hehe that wasnt to extremes!  
> GG: that was just the warm up to gauge how pissed off you really are  
> GG: this is the real thing  
> GG: ready???  
> AG: Oh god.  
> GG: here goes.......  
> AG: Christ  
> GG: ..............  
> AG: Harley  
> GG: .................  
> AG: J8de  
> GG: .........  
> AG: Put me out of my m8sery already.  
> GG: ......  
> AG: ........  
> GG: .....  
> GG: preparing to deploy..... !  
> GG: <33333333  
> AG: Fuuuuuuuu  
> AG: uuuuuuuu  
> AG: uuuuuuuu  
> AG: uuuuuuuu  
> AG: uuuuuuuu  
> AG: uuuuuuuu  
> AG: uuuuuuuu  
> AG: uuuuuuuuck.  
> GG: it worked didn't it?  
> AG: N8PE.  
> GG: hehehe  
> GG: liar :)  
> GG: sometimes you forget that im a god too!!  
> GG: i know youre smiling vriska  
> AG: ........  
> AG: Just hurry up and get me home, Harley.  
> GG: almost done!  
> AG: A8out time.  
> AG: <3
> 
> arachnidsGrip [AG] ceased pestering gardenGnostic [GG]

*

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and there's a fish in your boot. You've just been transportalised back to your island, and it seems Jade Harley had the coordinates off by about half a mile. Flying back to shore isn't going to be a thing that happens, what with your wings soaked, pressed flat to your back, and so there you are, treading water. Jade desperately flings herself out the window of one of your hive's towers, doing her witchy thing to get to you.

     Surprisingly, this is one of your quiet days.

*

     “Haaaaaaaarley,” you grumble, reaching out to the bedside table. You swear under your breath as you stub a fingertip on the side, and grasp aimlessly at the air until you get a hold of your much needed glasses. Unfolding the arms, you slide them on, but no, it's no good; they aren't yours. “Where the hell are my glasses?”

     Jade tries talking around her toothbrush, and worryingly, you understand every word of it. Pretending that you're none the wiser, you slump back down against your pillow, and wait for her to spit in the sink.

     “They're where you left them!”

     “Which is wheeeeeeeere?”

     “On the floor!”

     She sounds far too happy for seven-fifteen in the morning. She _always_ sounds far too happy. You wish that she'd be a little more dejected, sometimes, so that you could go back to living your life in a constant state of wallowing in your own misery and lashing out at the world. You resent the fact that, because of her, the biggest problem nowadays consists of not being able to find your glasses, and so you just sit there, wearing _her_ glasses.

     That'll show her. It'll definitely show her.

     And beyond the glasses issue, you have absolutely no desire to get up, blind or otherwise. You don't want to leave this island, or even your bed, but you know she's going to try dragging you out. Jesus, maybe the others should try visiting _you_ , for once. You miss the days when things were easy, when Jade Harley was someone you thought you could hate, back when the trolls and humans came together on this new world of yours. You miss the black flirtation that never went anywhere and made you look like an idiot, and you miss thinking that you held any sort of sway over her. For a brief moment, you consider mustering up a bout of narcolepsy for nostalgia's sake, but then think better of it. You'd never get away with it.

     That woman is all wrought iron, beneath her goofy grin.

     When she pads back out of the bathroom, she's wearing slippers with big, floppy rabbits' ears on the tongue, which does something to make her seem like less of a menace. No one else can truly comprehend what you mean when you say Jade is a force to be reckoned with, outside of any godly attributes, but you know she has a wicked streak a mile wide. It just so happens to mostly manifest itself in the form of cuddles, thinly-veiled hints for belly-rubs and the inability to take any shit from you.

     Jade scoops up your glasses as she heads over to the bed, hops on the edge, and replaces her glasses with your own as she straddles your knees through the duvet.

     Evil.

     Pure evil.

     She leans forward, kissing the tip of your nose. You aren't falling for any of it, though, because you know she's planing something. She's trying to placate you by means first-class pity invocation, but you're not about to let this witch get the better of you. Sure, perhaps you'd like to see some of the others, because it's been a while since you visited John or Kanaya, but for the most part, you can live without the other trolls. To that end, you're perfectly content with staying exactly where you are; and more so, really, when her fingers splay out against your jaw and she tilts your head back to kiss you properly.

     Her lips are on yours, texture different to your own in such a subtle way that you have to keep on kissing just to work out how, and her silly pink human tongue licks at your front teeth like she's waiting for an invitation. Your hands are at her hips, fingers pressing to the small of her back, and she arches towards you. You grin against Jade's mouth, because she's a ridiculous little alien, legs wrapped possessively around your waist, doing nothing but distracting herself. Neither of you will make it to the stupid meet-up at this point, and the blame will all be on her.

     Jade sucks eagerly on your neck as your hands wander up, tracing the links of her spine through her creased nightshirt, before you reach her tangle of hair. Your nails rake against her scalp and you scout out the ears atop her head, scratching at the bases. She lets out a pretty little noise, and you know you have her exactly where you want her, wrapped around your little finger.

     Fifteen minutes later and she's pinning your hands above your head, hips grinding against your own, and you're fairly certain that you're panting out yes, of course you'll go on the dumb trip, whatever she wants, just keep going. And really, you don't understand how she can have so much raw energy coursing through her all the time, the way she can keep moving atop you like she's constantly at the point of exhaustion, but always finding that she has more to give, just when you think you're getting off lightly.

*

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and you're wearing a very fashionable scarf to one of your far too frequent meet-ups with eleven fellow trolls and four squidgy humans. Dave gives Jade a knowing nod when he catches you glancing his way, and Kanaya keeps tugging on one end of the scarf, commenting that it's such a bizarre choice of accessory for a mid-July afternoon.

*

     “Hey,” Jade says, throwing herself down next to you.

     You'd think that, out of all the places on the planet, the edge of a volcano's mouth would be a fantastic place to be alone and have time to gather your thoughts. You'd think that, but then you wouldn't have a semipotent demigod for a matesprit, capable of flying without wings. Her loss, you figure. The wings are awesome and she knows it.

     There are no fuckasses this morning. She just stretches out her feet and glances up at the sky, chewing on her lower lip like she plans on doing anything other than shuffling a few inches closer to you and wrapping her arms around you. You huff preemptively, and begin counting down the seconds until the inevitable unfolds in your mind; you're off by three. Apparently, she just can't control herself this morning, and absolutely _has_ to latch onto you, arms anchored safely around your waist.

     I'd be easy to fling her off, straight into the volcano. But then again, even if it was still active, she'd only come back to life short minutes later, and you'd have to deal with her being clingy _and_ pissed off. Wrapping one arm around her in kind is surely the lesser of of two evils, and at least this way she can feel the resentment seep out of your pores.

     “What are you upset about?” she asks, and you snap back that you're _not_ upset, why would she even think that, before the question's fully dislodged from her throat. You wince at your own protest, and she glances up, deciding that there's no need for her to scold you.

     “You are, Vriska! I know when you're upset about something, and I'm not like Rose. I can't play psychologist and give all of your problems fancy names, so I just have to tell it how it is!” she says, giving you a squeeze, “And I think how it is happens to be that you're being silly again and worrying for no real reason.”

     Fuck her. You didn't even remotely hint towards being worried about anything. Fuck her and the fact that her semipotent powers apparently lend themselves towards mind reading, because there's no way that she could have figured it out already. There's no way that you've become an open book to this annoying, babbling human with her nose smushed up against your temple.

     “I'm not worried about it.” _It_ , you say, like she knows what you're talking about, like you've given up on pretending that you're not so blindingly obvious that even Terezi could see right through you. You lift a hand, scratch at the back of your neck, and the fact that you have to talk to Jade Harley about something like this helps you to realise just how inane it truly must be. Sure, she's got the transportaliser working reliably now, and there's a direct portal set up to where the others reside, slap-bang in the middle of civilisation, but why the hell should that change a thing? Jade's always been perfectly capable of teleporting herself wherever she pleases. It's not as if she's somehow been given a whole host of new choices for the first time in her life. Oh, fuck. It's finally happened. You've finally succumbed to paranoia and jealousy. “You ever wonder why we're together?”

     “Haha, yeah! All the time, actually,” Jade says, not holding back any of her amusement. Not exactly the answer you were expecting. “We're not really a good match, are we? I like gardening and science and protecting endangered frogs, and you're actually kind of mean!”

     You wonder if it's _really_ science when her godly powers come into play.

     “Well—” you say, as willing to be argumentative as ever. “I gueeeeeeeess that's all true! But once again, you're only looking at the obvious bullshit, and ignoring what really matters!”

     Jade scrunches up her face, deep in thought. Yup, now you've done it. You've sowed the seeds of doubt in Jade's mind, and now she's going to hop into the transportaliser, find herself a new matespirt, and leave you all stranded on Hellmurder Island, population: you. When she doesn't reply promptly enough for your liking, you nudge her in the side with your elbow.

     “Oh—um! What really matters? What's that?”

     “We, uh—” Good question. “We both like the sea, right?” Why are you saying _right_? You're supposed to be telling her things, not throwing vague, uncertain suggestions her way! Get it together, Serket. “Of coooooooourse we do, haha! We're always out pirating together! Not to mention all our other adventures. Hell, you're the only person I know smart enough not to realise that playing around like that isn't retarded. And getting to live on this island with you is pretty sweet, because your lamey lamey lame science gadgets always end up exploding, so they're kiiiiiiiind of like my doomsday devices. _And_ you do that thing where you manage to snap me out of my fucking boring sulking sprees, because out of all the humans I know, and most of the trolls, too, you're the only one who knows how to properly stand up for themselves.”

     “Yeah!!” Jade agrees enthusiastically, and you can feel the curve of her grin against your cheek. “But you forgot all of the other good parts, like when we sit up all night watching movies, or when we make forts out of blankets and hide there, eating cotton candy at one AM.”

     You laugh under your breath, tilt your head to look at her, and then don't even _care_ that you know exactly what she's done. Jade Harley is a clever one, though you'd never tell her as much; sometimes, you think she doesn't realise what it is she does. Alright. So perhaps you were overreacting a tad, but this is new to you. It's been six months, but it's still new to you, and you're waiting for her to abscond. More than that, you're waiting for yourself to abscond, because goddamn, she's absolutely nothing that you would've thought to look for in a matesprit.

     And maybe that's why it's worked thus far. Because you weren't actively looking, guided by some best forgotten tome.

     “You'd make a _terrible_ kismesis, Harley,” you tell her, because you're still not good at sincere compliments.

     She smiles all the more, places a hand to your cheek, and just as she's about to say _something_ you're certain is going to leave your face beaming blue, she opens her mouth and barks.

     What the fuck.

     She _really_ needs to get that under control.

     “—and an embarrassing matesprit!” you conclude your point, and then push her off the edge, back into the crater of the volcano. With a smirk, you spread out your wings, lean backwards, and then you're falling, catching up with her as she begins to ascend. Jade may be trying to scowl at you, but you can tell she's having to bite the inside of her cheeks to stop from smiling. “What? You said I was meeeeeeeean! You already knew that!”

     You wrap your arms around Jade's waist, and she lets you support her weight as if she can't fly, wings beating harder against your back. Poking her tongue out, she rests your forehead against yours, and sneers out, “Fuckass.”


	5. hapyp bithrday

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA]

TG: hey  
TG: i jsut want you to know  
TG: that its time  
TG: (fyi this is the part where u respond)  
TG: kanayaaa  
TG: mayram  
TG: plz reply   
GA: Happy Birthday   
TG: waaaaht  
TG: dont tell me thast fuckin it   
TG: i wait and i wait and i get to lousy words from you  
TG: when usually i cant PAY u to shut your tarp for more than five consecutive seconds  
TG: *cons.....wow did i really get that right the first time   
GA: Oh For The Love Of  
GA: Lalonde Would You Calm Yourself For At Least   
GA: As You Put It  
GA: Five Consecutive Seconds  
GA: I Was Busy Typing A More Substantial Response In Order To Treat This Auspicious Day With The Gravity It Rightly Deserves  
GA: But Certain Dare I Say It Inebriated Individuals Were Far Too Busy Bombarding Me With Message After Message Despite The Fact That I Had Not Kept Them Waiting For Long   
TG: right  
TG: ok  
TG: now that thats out of ur system  
TG: what did you get me   
GA: I Was Going To Wait Until I Arrived At Your House To Tell You But Well  
GA: I Cant Keep It Inside  
GA: Its The Gift Of Friendship Lalonde   
TG: oh kanaya you shouldnt have  
TG: i mean rrrrrrreally shouldnt have  
TG: youre yanking my chian right  
TG: just reachin up their and  
TG: givin it a   
TG: good  
TG: tug  
TG: im not tryin to make this sound as sexual as its comin out btw   
GA: I Didnt Suspect As Much Until You Put It That Way   
GA: Has Your Unwavering Devotion To Your Whiskey Bottle Finally Shattered In The Same Way That The Glass Of The Aforementioned Alcohol Receptacle Breaks Into A Thousand Pieces Upon Your Wandering Elbows Getting The Better Of It  
GA: Are You Heading Down The Path Of Salacious Temptation    
TG: a path that leads right to you front dor right?    
GA: Exactly   
TG: ahahaha  
TG: ok two points kanaya  
TG: one  
TG: i would never devote myself to just ONE drink  
TG: at times like this its like you dotn know a girl at all  
TG: and two  
TG: two  
TG: being  
TG: u know   
GA: A Certain Baking Prodigy Hmmm   
TG: shhhhhhhhhhhhh  
TG: fuckin shhhhhh  
TG: got my finger agianst my lips while i shhhhh u over hear   
GA: In This Case Insert Subject Change Here  
GA: Yes I Am Yanking Your Metaphorical Chain In A Way That Does Not Suggest I Am Making Any Inappropriate Advances Towards You   
TG: haha yup i know ur not makin eyes at me  
TG: right mayram  
TG: right?   
GA: Thats The Second Time Youve Misspelt My Name As Mayram  
GA: Are You Genuinely Under The Impression That My Name Is Kanaya Mayram  
GA: Because If So I May Need To Rethink Your Level Of Commitment To The Past Eight Years Of Our Friendship   
TG: fukc  
TG: *maryma  
TG: happy now?   
GA: I Am Not Even Close To Any Level Of Elation  
GA: Try Again   
TG: *maryma  
TG: goddamn impossible name  
TG: *mayram  
TG: *mayham   
GA: Oh Come On  
GA: Where Did That H Even Come From  
GA: How Much Have You Even Had Lalonde   
GA: I Thought You Were Going To Wait For My Upcoming Arrival  
GA: Really I Could Be There Within Twenty Minutes   
TG: oh  
TG: ooooh kanaya  
TG: THATS what i wanted to tell u  
TG: it finally happened  
TG: today is the day that my mom finaly went ahead and got me a real present  
TG: i mean this is fuckin spectaculer not a goddamn drip of passive agreesion anywhere  
TG: *drop  
TG: *aggression   
GA: Fucking Spectacular   
TG: yep anyway  
TG: dont you want to know what it is  
TG: i know u do so  
TG: she finally  
TG: FINALLY  
TG: found it within her to  
TG: get the key to the liquor cabinent   
TG: and  
TG: then  
TG: (buildin suspect atm btw)   
GA: How Do You Build Suspect  
GA: I Mean I Get Building Suspicion Though Not Necessarily In The Context Of That Particular Sentence   
TG: *suspense   
TG: dont even act like u didnt get it the first tiem  
TG: aaaaaaaaanyway  
TG: so she got the key to the liquor cabinet like some sorta  
TG: locksmith wizard with a beard that keeps rattling cause  
TG: obvs  
TG: its a beard made of keys  
TG: so she taeks her keybeard and then  
TG: fishes out the right onelike some kinda  
TG: some kinda  
TG: help me out here    
GA: Like Some Kind Of Witch Of Fishing   
TG: dammit girl you allways get me  
TG: carry in on  
TG: she gets the key with a hook that goes thru that whole thing u know where the keyring usually goes  
TG: and locks the liquor cabinet    
GA: Wait  
GA: What  
GA: Your Point In Its Entirety Is That Your Mother Has Locked The Drinks Cabinet And  
GA: This Is Something That You Consider To Be A Gift   
TG: yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup   
GA: Youre Going To Have To Do Some Explaining Here Lalonde  
GA: For One Why Would Your Mother Choose Now To Lock The Liquor Cabinet  
GA: You Just Turned Twenty One Surely She Should Have Done This Years Ago   
TG: its a sign kan   
GA: Oh   
TG: a sign that shes finally apporving in a non PA way  
TG: *approvin  
TG: shes not being like  
TG: like she isnt even botherin to lock the cabinent cause she does even care about whether or not i get in   
TG: i am p sure she has been tenptin me all this time bc she thinks ive got no willpower or whatever  
TG: oh *doestn care  
TG: but now kanya  
TG: my beloved kanaya  
TG: she is testin me  
TG: givin me a challenge to show that she thinks im up to it  
TG: that theirs some flicker of hope of me gettin my hands on this shit and takin it apart to reep the sweet sweet spoils insdie    
GA: You Think Your Mother Is Showing You Approval By Restricting Your Access To Alcohol On Your Twenty First Birthday  
GA: And Not Particularly Well Might I Add Considering The Fact That There Is Currently A Positive Correlation Between How Much Time Passes And How Drunk You Get  
GA: Honestly I Think Youve Misinterpreted Your Mother    
TG: oh and youd know  
TG: u would know aaaaall about that wouldnt you   
GA: What  
GA: Id Know About What   
TG: my mom   
TG: dont think i havent noticed  
TG: the way u  
TG: the way youre all  
TG: comin over and bein all like hey lalonde lets go help ur mom in the kitchen  
TG: then bein all  
TG: eyebrows raised like  
TG: shit yes my best friend has no idea about how i think her mom is the hottest think this side of the freudian boarder of ilicit affairs on counter tops    
GA: Oh My God  
GA: Please Just Stop   
GA: I Literally Have No Idea What That Last Thing That Came Out Of Your Keyboard Means   
TG: oooh isnt that convienent  
TG: u dont have a clue what im talkin about  
TG: youve never even locked at my mom i bet  
TG: *looked  
TG: goddamn key witch   
GA: Wizard  
GA: Well Of Course I Have Looked At Your Mother  
GA: If Only Because I Am Under The Impression That Avoiding Eye Contact With Somebody While Youre A Guest In Their Home Is Nothing Short Of Rude  
GA: And While It Can Be Said That She Is A Rather  
GA: Hmmmm  
GA: A Rather Profession Woman  
GA: My Feelings Towards Her Have Never Been Anything Untoward Or Anything Beyond Respecting Her For What An Obviously Upstanding Job She Has Done In Raising You  
GA: In Fact The Mere Suggestion That I Harbour Some Sort Of Inevitably Non Reciprocated Affections For Your Mother Is Just  
GA: Shithive Maggots Lalonde    
TG: well fuck youre ramblin thats never a goodthnig  
TG: especially when it involes my mom  
TG: so please  
TG: kanaya please  
TG: ur present to me can be not makin eyes at my mom   
GA: If Thats The Case Then I Will Happily Return Your Gift To Its Store Of Origin And Get My Hard Earned Money Back   
TG: ahahaha  
TG: "return@ it to a store  
TG: thats cute kanaya but i know u made me something yourself  
TG: god damn that swirly at was supposed to be an airquote  
TG: only not an ariquote cause its all literal right  
TG: its literally happenin AS WE SPEAK  
TG: but yeah ok this is kind of new  
TG: i mean my friends are usaually all over my ancle dave  
TG: *uncle  
TG: lmfao ankle dave  
TG: classic lalonde  
TG: so yeah if you think not swooning other my mom is a think u thing you can do  
TG: GRAET    
GA: Trust Me When I Say That I Sincerely Believe That I Have It Within Myself To Do Nothing Of The Sort  
GA: Besides Has Anyone Swooned Since The 1940s   
TG: hahaha probs not  
TG: but anyway hurryup and get urself over here!!  
TG: who knowsm aybe youll get lucky and ill pass out  
TG: leavin u alone with my mom  
TG: ur 21 now kanaya  
TG: ugh  
TG: fuckin grossin myself out here   
GA: I Am Heeding Your Advice And Leaving Now  
GA: But Keep In Mind That It Is Only Because I Would Like To Be In Your Presence Today While You Still Maintain A Semblance Of Consciousness   
TG: i know im not the lalonde u what buuut  
TG: *wnat  
TG: *want  
TG: <3   
GA: You Are Impossible  
GA: Urgh  
GA: I Will Be There Shortly   
TG: but only after u shop blusshin  
TG: *stop

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] is now away --

TG: pfffffffffffffffff  
TG: hahahahahajsjsjsjsjsjsjs  
TG: wait  
TG: shit  
TG: i cant help but feel in some smlal way  
TG: ive helped spur this all on  
TG: forget it all kanaya  
TG: evey last word ive said  
TG: even the ones that are typed correctly  
TG: just  
TG: ill give u some of what im drinkin when you get here  
TG: thatll do the trick  
TG: or just  
TG: give u the couraeg to go for it  
TG: lalonde you did not think this thru

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] has returned from being away --

GA: Lalonde  
GA: I Will Say This Once And Only Once  
GA: Well Its Likely That Youre Seeing At Least Double Right Now So That Statement May Seem A Little Self Contradictory But  
GA: If You Do Not Put An Immediate Halt To Your Current Line Of Thinking Then So Help Me I Will Open Up Every Pester Log Based Feelings Jam We Have Had Revolving Around A Certain Miss Crocker And Send Her Transcripts Of Them All  
GA: In Their Entirety   
TG: i  
TG: ok  
TG: so ill see you in a minute then ahaha not talkin about naything else nope   
GA: Much Better  
GA: See You Then   
TG: yup youll see me  
TG: no on else  
TG: just me  
TG: ill be the preson youre lookin at all platonically and shit, no inappropriate feelins up in the air  
TG: wow damn is that the phone

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA]


	6. Cinnamon Ketchup

     The sky is particularly low today, and the whole of the landscape is grey, making Aradia feel as if she walks right through the clouds. There is no distinction between said clouds and the sky itself; if Aradia were to cut away at the miserable, lifeless sources of drizzle, then she'd be staring into a void. Maybe straight into space. Out there, there's nothing but the rain, and it sticks to her in getting into the mud, causing her feet to slide and twist with every step she takes. The hood of her massive raincoat cuts out at least half of her vision and keeps her wings bound, and when she reaches out to grab hold of the splintered wooden fence between a field and the cobbled village path beneath her feet, she can barely stretch her fingers out further than the edge of her sleeve.

     Lugging the shopping bag along in her free hand, Aradia resents living atop a hill until she gets through the gate at the foot of the garden. Things don't seem quite as dreary when her bright red front door is in view, but then she pauses, hearing something behind her – like the bleat of her lusus, cutting through the rain. Brow furrowed, Aradia looks over her shoulder, and realises that it's only the sound of the gate creaking closed, distorted by the wind. She smiles sadly, fumbling through her pocket for the key, and no matter how desperate she was to get out of the rain short seconds ago, she still spares another moment to glance back at the gate. As if someone, anyone, is going to be coming up that path after her.

     If they were still on Alternia, there still might be a chance, no matter how slim.

     Aradia drops the bag at her feet, pulls her hood back, and shakes out her hair. It's soaked in spite of the raincoat, and she quickly shrugs that off, feeling the warmth of the hive hit her as her wings unfold. There's a smell coming from the nourishblock, something that reminds her of the essence of Twelfth Perigee's Eve, rolled up with—cinnamon-tinged ketchup? They certainly do have some odd delicacies on Earth, and Terezi Pyrope certainly has taken to them with surprising ease. Kneeling down, Aradia picks her coat and bag off the floor, hangs the coat on a hook by the door, and darts off to see what atrocities await her in the nourishblock.

     “You smell like wet grass and grumpy sheep!” Terezi announces happily, kicking closed the oven door behind her with one foot. She's got cherry red oven gloves on and a tray of freshly baked cookies between her hands, and Aradia really doesn't want to know how the ketchup-smell comes into it all.

     “Of course the sheep are grumpy! It's raining and it's cold and they don't have any hives to huddle up inside of. Not to mention the fact that soon enough, the humans are going to slay their young and roast the corpses!” Aradia says, grinning, well aware that the grumpy sheep Terezi are referring to are a little less literal than the ones she passed on the way home. There's something about getting back in the warm that makes it easy to shrug off discomfort. “ _And_ nobody knits them scarves or cardigans. Maybe we should speak to Rose about that.”

     Terezi drops the baking tray on the worktop with enough of a clatter to send a few cookies flying, and then pushes herself up onto tiptoes. Smiling, Aradia leans forward so that Terezi has a better chance of actually being able to kiss her cheek, and then begins dusting cookie crumbs onto the floor.

     “They're sheep, Aradia! They already have all the woolly jumpers they need, hehehe.”

     An excellent point, Aradia supposes, watching as Terezi tears off an edge of a cookie and dunks it into a pot of ketchup. Which solves one mystery. She begins emptying the shopping into the fridge and cupboards, bread and soup and vegetables but no milk, thank you very much, that's never sat too well with the troll immune system, and just about manages to get the cupboard door closed by the time that Terezi pulls her back. Aradia's immediately bundled up in Terezi's spindly arms, and the only reason she doesn't put up any sort of struggle is because in the same moment, she's having cookie shoved against the side of her nose. She laughs, assuming that Terezi was at least intending to aim for her mouth, and tilts her head up, snapping the cookie between her teeth.

     Luckily for Aradia, it actually tastes surprisingly alright. Good, even. Much better than the time Terezi accidentally added in salt rather than sugar, without a doubt.

     “Mmm!” Aradia says, playfully exaggerating the noise without patronising Terezi in the process.

     “How is it?” Terezi asks, voice already brimming with pride, “Delicious?”

     “Delicious,” Aradia agrees, twisting in Terezi's arms. Face to face like that, her eyes flicker down to Terezi's grin, tracing the shape of her mouth, her teeth, and she doesn't feel threatened in the least. There's something endearing about the way that ketchup is smudged against the corner of Terezi's mouth, and it stops Aradia from thinking too hard about just how sharp those teeth are. Leaning in, Aradia presses a quick kiss to Terezi's lips, pulling back before Terezi can return the gesture. Again and again, Aradia presses light kisses against Terezi's mouth, until she's grinning so widely at Terezi's mounting frustration that she can't keep up the ruse.

     “Hey—!” Terezi protests, still going in for kisses that Aradia keeps leaning back from, “The court holds one Aradia Megido in contempt for resisting an officer's ever so benevolently bestowed kisses!”

     “ _Well_ ,” Aradia says, moving onto tiptoes as a means of escape, “I can't really make it much worse for myself, can I?”

     “Hehehehehe—!”

     Terezi's arms fall slack around Aradia's waist, and in the next moment, she's clinging to both of her wrists, backing her up against the breakfast bar.

     “The prosecution requests permission to detain said mischievous troll until such a time that the law feels she is able to adequately conduct herself.” A pause. “—permission granted!”

     Aradia would point out that Terezi can't possibly be the prosecution _and_ the judge, but she's laughing far too hard for all that, trying to flail her way free of Terezi's grasp. If she could just stop to catch her breath, to see things clearly, then this would be _so_ much easier, but as things are, she can barely stand upright. It's a good thing that between Terezi and the breakfast bar, she's got all the support she needs.

     Really, Terezi is just so delightfully _silly_ that at times like these, that Aradia can't even remember how dark and hollow being dead had felt. And there's no longer that ridiculous fear nagging at her, the feeling that one day, life will become bland again; that all the excitement she felt at waking from death would be as nothing. Less than a faded memory. Because with Terezi there, it's hard to find a spare moment that isn't filled with some ridiculous absurdity. The muscles in Aradia's mouth ache from smiling, and she doesn't care.

     “Struggling will only prolong your punishment!” Terezi announces, and Aradia finds it within herself to settle down. “Better. Now! How do you plead?”

     Aradia doesn't have much of a choice here, because Terezi hasn't really left her with any options. She's well aware that Terezi is convinced of her guilt, and probably can't smell so much as a drop of innocence on her.

     “Guilty!” Aradia says all too cheerfully for someone condemning themselves. “But I'll, um. Make it up to the honourable legislacerator Pyrope.”

     “Oh?”

     “Exactly, _oh_! I'll—return all of the stolen kisses. How's that?”

     _Perfect_ , apparently, and enough to absolve her from all wrongdoings. Misdeeds quickly forgotten, Terezi smushes their noses together, and Aradia knows better than to pull back this time. More to the point, she's impressed at herself for having avoided so many kisses with Terezi, and allows herself to move softly in the kiss, Terezi's grasp on her wrists loosening just enough to permit her to lift her hands and place them against her cheeks.

     They kiss for a long time, until they somehow find themselves sat up on the edge of the breakfast bar, wrapped up in each other's arms. Kissed into a state of warmth and relaxation, Aradia treats herself to another cookie, while Terezi props her chin on her shoulder, licking at her wings. It's an odd sensation, because even after sweeps, though the feeling evoked spreads through her as naturally as it would from any other part of her body, it's all so new, so unexpected. Terezi says that her wings have the strangest texture, the most unusual taste, and that she needs to keep investigating, in order to get to the truth of the matter.

     Tonight, apparently, they taste like hard candy laid out flat, dipped in a cherry glaze. Aradia decides that it's probably the best description Terezi's given thus far, and with twitching wings, she wraps her arms around Terezi, forgetting all about how low the sky is outside.


	7. Knew No Haste

     There are things you're willing to say, margins of space and time you'll make reference to.

     You will say: that you are walking back to your home, and on your walk back, you tread the stone-white path of the cliff-top, like broken pieces of porcelain waning under the light of your skin. You will not say: that your hive is atop a cliff, and that hive has a long, winding path leading up to it, and that there are three respiteblocks, two livingblocks, and a spacious nourishblock that leads out onto a garden, twenty feet across by fifteen. You won't mention the rusted blue fence that runs along the very edge of the garden, each spire reaching your elbows, keeping the sea – or any wandering temptations to dive into it – at bay. You might say that it needs a new coat of paint, but you won't make note of the waves below. You live on a cliff, and that much is given.

     Inside, when the key has turned in the lock, you will look around; and when you look around, you'll notice an old cabinet pushed against faded wallpaper. You might think of the time you rescued the relic, already an antique when it first came into your home, but you'd never think that it was eight-hundred and seventy-four years ago, fortified by magic. Because you haven't been counting. Because eight-hundred and seventy-four years are as nothing to you.

     Your life has been a series of images passing you by, pictures in your blind spot, portraits changing before your eyes. It should not be summed up succinctly in strict, precise sentences, as if you have lived within a series of perimeters that can be accurately measured. They would end up with libraries dedicated to your immortality if they tried to record each slight tilt of your head, each nuance of your mood, and cold, hard facts would take nothing like consistency into consideration. In the decades and centuries that have come and go, there has been but one thing worth preserving: a feeling. Malleable, but unmoving. You live in the abstract, in the space in between counted seconds.

     Passing a window, you stare out at the night sky, but see more of your own reflection than any of the landscape. There used to be rows of lights in the distance, down in the valley, where towns and cities stood, but this is a dead land. A once great land, revered, but now ruin and dust; and few alive recall the name the country took when you first stepped upon this planet. The seas are volatile around it, and the soil yields no grain, but somehow, you always end up here, in your hive that stands solely because of the magic that envelops it. That eats away at its bones, leaving it hollow, empty.

     You light a fire, boiling a dented copper kettle over it. You pour yourself tea, and you wait.

     Three days, four days. Nine and then fifteen. Meagre snapshots that pass you by from the comfort of your favourite chair.

     And then you hear it. Another key in the lock. You smile to yourself and feel no urge to stand that need be fought back; you wonder why you turned the bolt and locked yourself in, when no one has laid claim to this cliff-top in centuries. You sit and you wait, listening to the sound of the hive slowly remember that it was once full of life. Doors rattle in their frames, floorboards creak, and pots clamber and clatter as someone searches out the kettle you've already taken for your own. It won't be long, now that she knows you've seized possession of it.

     A very long time ago, you would've already lost all semblance of restraint, and thrown yourself into her arms. You would hold her tightly, face buried in her shoulder, and you would miss her so much you couldn't take it, even though she was right there. Remembering stirs up something warm inside of you, and you notice for the first time how cold it is, caught as you are between walls of brickwork. You fold your hands together, fingers brushing over knuckles, one by one.

     Leaning forward, you add another piece of dried wood to the fire. The livingblock door opens, and as she makes her way into the room, you hang the kettle back over the fire. Momentarily stood in front of you, Rose leans forward, kisses your forehead, and then retreats to the armchair opposite your own. You pour her tea, say nothing, and watch orange embers feed on the blackening wood.

     “Thank you,” she says, and you wonder if the fact that your undead heart no longer lurches in your chest in an imitation of life at the mere sound of her voice means that you love her any less than you once did.

     Surely not.

     Because this is Rose Lalonde, and with her, there is no more or less; there is the absolute, and what you always have and always will be certain of. She was thirteen when you first met, and could possibly pass for twenty-five now, were she wearing the right make-up. The two of you lived for decades upon decades in this house, years measuring mere minutes, and when you look at her across the room, you think about growing old and dying with her here. But there is no growing old to be done between the two of you, and so time continues to pass you by with no resolution. You think of the bed you shared, the human holidays that came and went, the things that remained unsaid.

     But there are no longer unspoken thoughts between you, unless you force yourselves to be apart. You like that. Like not knowing, for once, what it is Rose is thinking.

     That isn't to say that you don't know what she's been doing. You know the structure of her life, the bare bones of it, and how it's unfolded since last you met. She roams far from you, writing. Always writing, reliving history, getting her facts ever so slightly wrong on purpose; just so that too much attention is never drawn to her, so that nobody ever questions how she knows what she does. You keep track of all the pseudonymous she uses, finding new ones by the day. They're like riddles she leaves behind for you to later unravel.

     For now, you discuss your own pasts. You talk about the way the hive was before it became a ghost of itself, when you were a family, with ectosiblings and fluorescent-blooded trolls to visit. (There are still ectosiblings to visit, though not all of them are ectobiological, gods as they are, but they have their own forgotten corners of the world to hide away in. Yet not all of the trolls earned their wings.) Rose nurses her tea as she drinks, and you know nothing untoward has made its way into her cup. She may have had decades to devote to alcohol abuse, but addiction slowly gave way to boredom as the centuries melded together. You talk, then, about what you have done in the time between you last meeting and this one, and you close your eyes softly, embracing the fact that you can still find questions to ask her.

     You speak of how the world once was, and how it soon will be. She asks if you're hungry, and you say no, no thank you; you're tired, that's all.

     You take her to bed.

     She falls asleep with her forehead against your back, hands splayed across your ribs. The glow doesn't keep her awake, but there's still tension in the way her fingers flex into your skin. You haven't kissed her yet, but that's alright. It's only been hours, and if there's anything you have left to give her, it's hours. Before you close your eyes, you make a mental note to do so in the morning, providing she doesn't leave before you find it in yourself to wake up.

     You turn in the night, arms wrapping tightly around her. The sun floods in brighter than it has all summer in the morning, and she stirs in your arms like you're both living as if there's going to be an end to it.

     The cupboards are bare, but hunger is soon sated by magic. Rose asks, over her dry toast, how you plan to get back to civilisation, but you don't think it's an invitation to travel with her. You tell her you haven't decided yet, because you have the luxury of contemplating all possible methods, and she doesn't tell you where she's going, or how. As you eat, you consider replacing the curtains because they're looking rather drab, and maybe a lick of paint would serve the walls well, too. Rose smiles, and says that she'll bring some colour samples, next time, and you reach across the table, squeezing her hand.

     It's something to look forward to for the next century or so.

     The tap strains and creaks. The water chokes on itself. Plates chime together. Nails scrape at stains. You hold the dishes out to her, one at a time, and she dries them, placing them on the top shelf of the cupboard. Like you're expecting company some time soon. Any time soon. It is domestic and it is bliss, but it has come and gone. This is just a fragmented reminder of what you were once blessed with.

     A way to know that it was real.

     Is real, only in another way.

     The kitchen is tidy enough to look as if no one has been there at all, and you make your own way to the front door. You have nothing with you, no luggage, not even a purse, but the midday sun is so wonderful on your skin that you feel as if your arms are full. And then they are, when Rose joins you on the front porch, and sinks into your embrace. You press your nose and lips to the top of her head, and that close, it's easy to imagine that her hair is grey and withered, and that you have spent all of your days like this. Deteriorating, disintegrating.

     The world has granted you no such kindness. You reach out, tilting her head back, kissing her. Just like you wanted to last night in bed. When it's been this long, it's almost like it's never happened before at all; like this is the first time you've ever kissed her, and you can almost, _almost_ feel something swirl where your stomach should be. The kiss lasts and lasts, and then Rose's hands are bundled in small fists as your shoulders, easing you back, and you marvel at her ability to make parting simply seem like something that must be done, no questions asked, rather than strenuous and aching.

     There are many things you would say of Rose Lalonde, and this is not one of them: that you loved her in the past, love her still, and will love her forever more. But you would let her know this, if she ever asked: that you believe giving into the temptation of the ebb and flow of the sea below would be nothing if not just.

     That you would think it heroic, if she were brave enough to take her leave of a world that has spun you both into the workings of time itself.


	8. Rose: Go to extreme measures to see just how sorry Vriska is.

     “You're a fucking crazy bitch, Lalonde,” Vriska hisses through grit teeth, straddling her thigh. Her face is flushed burning blue and she's wearing one of Rose's altered Squiddles shirts, two slashes running like scars up the back of the fabric for her wings to fit through. Rose has long since become intimately acquainted with the fact that Vriska doesn't wear underwear. 

     Rose idly considers pointing out that she doesn't think throwing Vriska's clothes straight out the window as soon as she'd got her naked constitutes unsound psychological behaviour, but instead lets out a breathy laugh through her nose. She smirks, and when Vriska growls in frustration, bringing her hands up to her throat, Rose makes the effort to tilt her head back as if she genuinely believes that Vriska's going to throttle her. Vriska's brow furrows, her thumbs press to the centre of Rose's throat as her nails dig in at her nape, and Rose blinks heavily, feeling her breath come a little shallower. Her arms stretch up above her head, across the bed, and Rose lets her fingertips idly brush against one of the slats in the headboard. 

     When Vriska's pathetic half-choking attempt doesn't seem to be getting her anywhere, Rose raises her eyebrows and bends one knee, grinding her thigh between Vriska's legs. Vriska's concentration slips too easily, her hands fall slack around her neck, but Rose barely has time to drink down the deep breath of air she needs before Vriska's mouth is slammed down against her own. Rose's arms tense, instinctively wanting to reach down and tangle and tug in Vriska's hair, but she restrains herself. She prides herself on having far more self-control than Vriska does, and simply wraps her fingers around the slat in the headboard. Her lips part before Vriska's given the chance to tear them apart with her teeth, and Rose seeks to irritate her further by being painfully compliant. She pushes her tongue out, slides it against Vriska's, and continues to push her thigh between her legs.

     Vriska leans in closer, bony fingers grasping at Rose's thigh, fighting for dominance of a kiss that Rose relinquishes control of all too easily. Rose smiles softly against her mouth, feeling Vriska's frustration mount, and her hands leave her hip, wrapping around her shoulders, thumbs dug in at her collarbone. With Rose not giving her the inevitable fight that she wants, Vriska breaks off the kiss, pulls Rose up and slams her down against the mattress, once, twice, three times. Rose quirks an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. That might have been effective if Vriska had her pinned to a brick wall, but as things stand, all that happens is Rose's vision spins for a fraction of a second, and the inky aura surrounding her charcoal skin flickers.

     “Fine.” Vriska spits out the sound, bowing her head and pressing her mouth to Rose's throat. All of a sudden, her kisses are gentle, and her voice comes out light, soft. That's never a good sign. “If you want to play like thaaaaaaaat, then let's pretend I'm Fussyfangs! Are you going to moan for me like you do for her, Lalonde?”

     Rose instinctively tries to twist away from Vriska's mouth, but doesn't get much further than turning her head to the side and exposing even more of her neck to Vriska. There might be no real weight behind Vriska's scrawny body, but she's deceptively good at pinning people down. Rose jerks a leg up forcefully, as if trying to warn her to back off.

     “Oh, fuck no,” she says sharply, one hand retiring from the headboard to tug on Vriska's hooked horn, all to no avail. “Don't you _dare_ make me ble—”

     But before Rose can even get the damn word out, Vriska's fangs are puncturing her throat. Rose lets out a cry at the snap of pain, whole body bucking uncomfortably. God, Vriska really has no idea what she's doing, and there's no accuracy behind what she tries with her teeth. She just splits streams of red into her flesh, and then dabs her tongue against the wound and the flow, despite having no real desire to drink the liquid down.

     “You can call me Kanaya, if you waaaaaaaant,” Vriska says with a low laugh, relishing in the way Rose's body shudders beneath her. Rose promptly decides that Vriska's had the upper hand for far too long, and reaches down, roughly taking hold of her jaw. She holds on tightly, pushing Vriska back, and with a knee to the gut finally manages to get her on her back. 

     “Ugh, get the hell off me,” Vriska whines as Rose settles down neatly against her hips. She's far more sensibly dressed than Vriska, still has on her shirt and shorts, and in the process of pinning her down has managed to fold one corner of her wings back. Rose looks down at it as the whole thing twitches, trying to reshape itself, and she wonders if it hurts. She certainly hopes so.

     “No,” Rose says flatly, and when Vriska reaches out to attend to her wing, grabs hold of both of her wrists. “First of all, you're going to apologise to me.”

     Vriska struggles in her hold, and Rose does her best to not let it show how much effort holding her down takes. She arches her back angrily, which does absolutely nothing to convince Rose to move.

     “What for?” she demands, scowling. Rose can tell that while Vriska's doing her best to make it seem as if she has no intention whatsoever of uttering so much as a word of an apology, she's going to buckle quickly enough.

     She always does.

     Rose tilts her head to the side, deep in thought. It's not really a matter of what Vriska has to apologise for, so much as a case of what she has to apologise for _first_ , and she lets go of one of Vriska's wrists, in order to press her fingertips to her neck. The wound there isn't as deep as she initially imagined it to be, but it still stings against the cool air of the room, and the blood still rubs off against her fingers. With a frown, she reaches down, wiping her fingers on Vriska's shirt.

     “For mutilating a perfectly good t-shirt in order to accommodate your wings.”

     Cautiously moving her freed hand up to the front of Rose's shirt that's more or less her shirt, by this point, Vriska hooks her clawed fingers around the collar, piercing the fabric. 

     “Christ! Sorry that I ruined such a shitty piece of clothing with your ridiculous human decals on it!” Vriska says with a smirk, and the sound of clothing tearing punctuates her words. “I don't know what came over me.”

     It's the most upbeat, insincere apology Rose has ever heard, and she can tell from the look on Vriska's face that she absolutely doesn't expect to be forgiven. She probably doesn't want to be, either.

     “It's very courageous of you to own up to your wrongdoings like that, Vriska,” Rose says with a warm smile, and she breathes her name so softly that Vriska's entirely distracted by her words. When Rose reaches down to reclaim her hold on the wrist she recently released, Vriska doesn't have the presence of mind to snap it away from her. She just lets Rose guide her, not shuffling beneath her until both of her hands are pinned by the sides of her head again.

     “ _Hey_!”

     “Oh, hush. You can voice any complaints I'm certain you have once you've proven that your decency can extend beyond a single apology,” Rose says with a sigh, like this is all dreadfully dreary business, darkness dripping from her skin in a rather abstract way. It travels in thick, splotchy tendrils, skyward, and Vriska can't take her eyes off them. There's something almost like panic painted across her face, but she swallows it back, trying to bring back a gleam of the usual bravado burning away in her eyes. 

     “I've got nothing else to apologise for,” Vriska says, sneering, “So get the hell off me _and go get my fucking clothes_.”

     “Say you're sorry for making me bleed.”

     Rose's words are all rather flat. Surely Vriska only snarls at her like that because she's making herself appear so very disinterested in it all.

     “No!” Vriska snaps, goes to say something else, but then her jaw locks up. She sees the tendrils spiral out from Rose's inky aura, slowly creeping across the bed, towards her. “—no, no, no, nononono _no_.”

     “No?” Rose raises an eyebrow, loosening her hold on Vriska's wrists. 

     The tendrils stop moving altogether.

     Swallowing the lump in her throat, Vriska tenses, as if building up the energy to shake Rose off her, but then doesn't even pull her wrists free. The pad of her tongue presses to her top lip, and she turns her head to the side, gaze still fixed on what seeps from Rose's form.

     “Not apologising,” she says, and when Rose orders the tendrils to continue creeping towards her hands, Vriska doesn't even flinch. 

     It's much easier like that, with the tendrils wrapped tightly around Vriska's wrists, pinning them above her head. It gives Rose the freedom to use her own hands for something other than restraint once again, and she gently places her fingertips against the line of Vriska's jaw, forcing her to look her way. She looks terribly ashamed of herself, expression presenting itself as a mixture of resentment, along with her vague desire not to yield to Rose, and Rose knows it won't be difficult to wipe that all away.

     She repositions herself, straddling Vriska's thighs so that she can lean forward, lips pressing to the shell of her ear.

     “Apologise, Serket, and I'll let you go,” Rose murmurs, planting a line of feather-light kisses down to the corner of her jaw.

     Vriska digs her head back against the mattress, inhaling sharply.

     “Get bent.”

     Rose would praise Vriska for being so adamant in her desire not to back down that she's willing to endure so-called torture, but she knows that Vriska isn't as noble as all that. Deciding that they're going to have to go about this the hard way and being glad of it, Rose hooks her thumbs around the hem of Vriska's shirt, doing what she can to tug it up. 

     The interruption of Vriska's wings means that it doesn't move up particularly far around the back, but at the front, Rose at least gets a clear view of the flat plane of Vriska's stomach. Next time, she notes to herself, she'll have to get rid of any inconvenient clothing before any confining measures are taken. 

     Shuffling further down the bed, Rose slides her hands between Vriska and the mattress, fingertips pressing to the small of her back. Vriska arches her back in a sharp, jerky angle, and doesn't relax back against the bed, lest Rose think the motion was unintentional in any way. Not impressed by Vriska's attempts to keep hold of her dignity in the slightest, Rose bows her head, lips brushing across her stomach, down to the curve of her hips, before trailing her tongue upwards, all the way up, not stopping until Vriska's ribs meet in the middle.

     The amount of care Rose takes to be gentle only infuriates Vriska further, and she growls from the back of her throat, trying to demand more of her. Because Rose doesn't do things like this to her. Rose doesn't take her time, and she doesn't keep her teeth and nails out of it.

     “God, I _hate_ you,” Vriska whines as Rose nudges her shirt up a little more with her nose, lips brushing between her breasts. Rose frowns, a little disappointed. She would've thought Vriska knew better than to try sweet-talking her way out of the situation. “You're a goddamn walking freakshow, you know? I'm going to make sure Kanaya gets you institutionalised, or call the circus to take yo— _nnn_...”

     By the time Vriska begins listing off her rather watery insults, Rose has long since lost interest in hearing her out. Deciding that she may as well get something out of this herself, she swipes her tongue across one of Vriska's nipples, _finally_ getting her to shut up. Vriska forgets whatever drivel she was on about this time, realises that this might not be _so bad_ after all, and pushes out her chest towards Rose's mouth. 

     Nails pressing into the small of her back, Rose rolls Vriska's nipple with the tip of her tongue, before taking it between her lips and sucking. Vriska bucks her hips, and that's where the trouble really starts. She tries to spread her legs, tries to lift herself off the bed enough to escape Rose atop her — enough to wrap her legs around her waist and grind up against her, at least. But all of it is completely useless. Rose is pressed down on her all too firmly, own hips sliding back and forth a little, and Vriska finds that there's nowhere for her to go.

     “Oh, _come on_ ,” she hisses, still trying to maintain some semblance of authority. It'd be a lot more convincing if she didn't whine every time Rose scraped her teeth against her.

     “Apologise,” Rose states simply, mouth breaking from Vriska's skin for a brief second.

     “Hell no!” Vriska says, already too far into this.

     Shrugging her shoulders, Rose opts to enjoy herself. Her nails dig into deeper, causing Vriska to arch up against her all the more, though there's so little space for her in which to move, and then kisses her way across to Vriska's other breast, repeating the process. As if keeping herself quiet at this point is going to do absolutely anything to help her, Vriska keeps her mouth shut, muffled noises inadvertently escaping, but that doesn't stop her from shuddering beneath Rose.

     She's a total mess. Taking mercy upon her, Rose reminds her that she can say sorry and end all of this.

     “Go to hell, Lalonde,” Vriska murmurs under her breath, no longer able to reinforce her words with spite.

     “Apologise,” Rose says darkly, firmly, hands moving up Vriska's back so that she can rake red-hot lines down her spine with her nails. 

     “—okay, _okay_ ,” Vriska practically yelps, body burning with frustration. “I'm sorry! I'm _sorry_ , okay? Happy now?”

     Very much so, Rose thinks with a victorious smile, sitting herself up on Vriska's thighs so that she can stare down at her. Vriska's hair is more tangled than usual, and her shoulders look like they're positively aching with the way they're pulled above her head, muscles taut. This stopped being about her escaping a long time ago.

     Rose claims hold of Vriska's hips as she lifts herself enough to allow Vriska the freedom to spread her legs, and then kneels in the space between them. She's a little disappointed in herself by the way she moves things along so hurriedly, but her shorts are suddenly infuriating her for the mere fact that they exist, and she reassures herself that, to Vriska, it must feel like a lifetime passes before she presses her mouth against her.

     Vriska's already a shivering wreck, hips bucking roughly because she knows she can't move the rest of her body as she wants to, and Rose _feels_ each and every one of the futile tugs on her restrains ripple through her. Her ears ring and she's a little dizzy, and while she'd like to blame the meagre blood loss on it, Rose strongly suspects that it has more to do with the way that she can still hear Vriska whimpering out apologies with every swipe of her tongue.

     Eyes closed, Rose groans against her, doing her best to keep Vriska's hips down as Vriska's legs wrap around her shoulders, crossing over behind her neck. Vriska doesn't last long. A few pathetic minutes later and she's making a show of herself, rocking desperately against Rose's mouth, twitching and writhing where the sensation's still so raw.

     In Rose's defence, she at least gives Vriska a good thirty seconds to recover.

     She spares a moment to watch her unwind, eyes screwed shut, arms pulling uselessly at her restraints, and then presses her palms flat against the inside of her thighs, trying to unwrap them from around her head. It isn't terribly difficult, as Vriska's already fallen slack by that point, but just to make sure she doesn't get any ideas about this being over, Rose allows a few stray tendrils to wrap around her ankles.

     “Lalonde,” Vriska begins, voice low, cautious, when she realises that something's keeping her legs right where they are. “—the hell is this?”

     “You really did sound incredibly sorry just now,” Rose informs her. The nails of one hand rake down the inside of her thigh, and with a satisfied hum when Vriska hisses, she carefully slides two fingers inside of her. “And I wanted you to know that I'm very accepting of your apologies, Vriska.”

     Now more than ever, Vriska has absolutely no idea what to do with herself. She keeps trying to move her arms and legs in towards herself, as if, despite having accepted the fact that she's spread out and being kept exactly where she is for a reason, her body can't help but react the way it does. Every flex and curl of Rose's fingers, every stroke of her tongue, seems to be amplified tenfold, and all of Vriska's sudden jolts and jerks are almost violent in nature.

     Rose has never heard her so wonderfully vocal before. She's telling her that she's not sorry, not sorry at all, and that she hates her so much that Rose can't even comprehend it, and she's going to get her back for this, she's going to make her pay; it's enough to make up for the way she misses Vriska's hands tangled in her hair. The way she misses her pushing and pulling, her forceful guidance.

     There's no reprieve to be found for Vriska; especially not when she comes, having no way to relax, to curl into herself and grip and at the bedsheets as she rides it out. She can't even push the balls of her feet against the bed, toes curling in the blankets.

     Rose sits up, smirks, and licks at her lips as she brushes loose strands of hair back from her damp brow. Vriska glowers up at her, face fully flushed, and she doesn't move a single inch, as if staying still now will do anything to erase Rose's memory of her fighting against the restraints.

     Leaning forward, Rose kisses her forehead, before promptly getting to her feet. She ignores the way her own legs feel weak, and only glances back at Vriska to make sure that the tendrils haven't followed in her wake.

     As luck would have it, they've remained exactly where Rose has ordered them to. 

     Rose straightens out the hem of her shirt a little, fingers wrapping around the door handle.

     “Hey,” Vriska says, voice groggy. “Where are you going?”

     “Hm?” Rose hums out, as if the answer's so obvious that she doesn't quiet understand the need for a question in the first place. “I'm going to get your discarded clothing, Vriska. I can't have you looking like that, you realise.”

     “Oh,” Vriska says, gaze narrowing as Rose opens the door, stepping out. “ _Oh_ , fuck you.”

     “In a moment, Serket. At least try to feign some patience,” Rose calls back from down the corridor, bedroom door pointedly left open behind her. Perhaps she'll tend to the cuts on her throat before chivalrously returning Vriska's clothing to her.

     Either way, there's no need to rush. Nobody should be back for a few hours, anyway.

     Theoretically.


	9. grey amongst the grey

     The light from Kanaya's skin only serves to remind them all of just how dark the asteroid truly is. There's only so much one undead troll can do alone, and while the perpetual glow she gives off flickers like a monitor screen and allows them to see where they're going, it doesn't bring any colour into their lives.

     The brightness from her unusual hive back on Alternia is neatly stored away in her Sylladex, bolts of fabric and long spools of thread never to be unlocked again. The black of the Furthest Ring creeps in closer every day, until it presses down against them like a sheen of ink, stealing each and every spark of life from the air. Days and nights meld into one, and they make their way to their destination caught in a constant, dreary sort of static. 

     It's been like this for over a sweep. 

     Kanaya sits atop a pile of scalemates, dingy from perigees of wear and dirt and dust, arms draped loosely around Terezi's waist. Terezi remains still and silent, except for when she occasionally shuffles in Kanaya's lap, trying to get comfortable, and Kanaya uses her nose to nudge back loose strands of hair from the side of her throat. It's been a while since any of them thought to cut their hair, and Kanaya feels scruffy by her own standards, hair always needing to be shaken back into place, dark circles beneath her eyes.

     Closing her eyes, Kanaya licks away the last of the blood from Terezi's throat. This is the only sort of colour she's blessed with, these days; teal, indigo, and two very distinct flavours of red, both burning bright. The warm, fresh taste of the teal is her favourite, and the only type she ever taps directly from the source. She feels horribly selfish at times, keeping this small snippet of the world in colour to herself as she does, but without the blood, her light wanes more than ever. 

     With the wound clotted over, Kanaya doesn't go far. She kisses Terezi against the curve of her neck, and then presses her forehead between her shoulder blades, waiting for her to say or do something. Once upon a time, Terezi would laugh and wiggle in her lap, before turning to face her, tongue lolling out, demanding compensation. Because if Kanaya got to taste her blood, then she at least should be allowed to taste the glow of her skin, intimately familiar with the way that it always lit up all the more when she smushed her face against Kanaya's. 

     But now, she says nothing. Even her breathing is quiet, subdued. Kanaya tightens her hold on Terezi's waist, knowing that the journey's been difficult on all of them. The dullness and monotony of the asteroid saps the life right out of them, leaving them to drag themselves through their waking hours in an idle, exhausting stupor. 

     “What's wrong?” Kanaya asks, if only to break the silence. “I sincerely hope I didn't hurt you, Terezi.”

     “Nah,” Terezi mumbles, repositioning herself in Kanaya's lap. She sits side-on and curls against her, temple pressed to Kanaya's collarbone. “You never do.”

     Kanaya rests her chin atop Terezi's head, just behind her horns, and slowly threads her fingers through her hair. Later, she thinks, later she will find a pair of scissors and take care of the tangled mess atop Terezi's head. But for now, she simply sits with her, comfortingly quiet, waiting to hear her out.

     “... it's just so _dark_.” Terezi's grumbling, now. No matter how real the issue is to her, Kanaya expects that she still feels as if she's merely whining for no good reason. “And it's not like there's colour under all the black! It's just— blinding. I can't taste anything else. By the time we get off this rock, I'm going to have forgotten that red smells like my eyes should water, and that green is sour!” 

     Kanaya murmurs that she's certain it won't be that way, because surely it's just like riding an engineless two-wheeled transportation device, and Terezi groans, as if in defeat, burying her nose against Kanaya's pulse point.

     “You're not even minty anymore!” she protests, nuzzling below the line of Kanaya's jaw and taking deep breaths. “It's just _white_ , and that's not even a colour. It's just a lack of everything.”

     The white, apparently, is as bad as the black, and Kanaya's about to ask if she should bring some of her blood to the surface, just to give Terezi a better chance of seeing colours spark in the back of her mind, when Terezi begins emptying the contents of her pockets into a miserable little pile in her palm.

     She picks up a loose screw, licks it, and says, “Grey!” before flicking it away.

     It lands with a soft chime a few feet away, and Terezi takes hold of a rusted old key, licks it, says, “Grey _er_!” and tosses it to the side. She repeats the process with a black _M_ that's been dislodged from one of the keyboards, a caegar, a paper clip that's already twisted out of shape, and the only piece of chalk she has left over. It leaves a white streak right down the centre of her tongue. 

     Kanaya just sits there as Terezi bemoans the state of her belongings, watching as each little colourless trinket goes flying. It takes her far too long to catch onto what's been presented to her, and when she does, Kanaya has to rewind her mind back a few long seconds.

     “The key you recently discarded of with the utmost care,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice even, “Where did you find it, Terezi? Has it always been in your possession, or is another spoil that comes with the endless scavenger hunts you entertain on this asteroid?”

     “It was in a box, under a rock. And that rock was _grey_.”

     Kanaya asks Terezi to be so kind as to fetch it once more, and Terezi squirms, legs kicking out, because she _doesn't want to_. She quickly realises that there's nothing better for her to do, though, and so hops to her feet with some degree of reluctance, searching out grey amongst the grey. 

     Kanaya leans forward on the pile of scalemates, eagerly awaiting Terezi's return, and after a good deal of patting around the ground, the key is safe and sound in Kanaya's palm. Carefully holding it up between two fingers, she worries her lower lip with her flat teeth, wondering if she could possibly be as lucky as she believes she's about to become.

     That's the thing with her Chastity Modus; she always finds the keys to unlock the items within exactly when she needs them.

     Terezi kneels down on the pile of scalemates next to her, lounges out across her lap, face scrunched up in bemusement as she tries to piece together exactly what it is Kanaya's up to. Wasting no more time, as if time isn't all they have to make use of, these days, Kanaya applies the key to her Sylladex, and the resulting burst of colour hits them like a tidal wave. 

     Having been given no warning whatsoever as to what was about to unfold, Terezi yelps, scrambles in Kanaya's lap, taking a moment to surface. Arms wrapped tightly around her, Kanaya pulls her out of the clutter and confusion of streams of fabric looped around them, tens upon dozens of patterns and textures and shapes mapping out a hundred different hues. Terezi clings to her shoulders, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and Kanaya's certain that for a moment, it's all too much for her.

     “Kanaya?” Terezi questions, confused, but doesn't wait for her to explain herself. She grabs two greedy handfuls of cloth, rubs them against her cheeks, and leaves a bright, shiny trail across the material as she licks at it. “Oh my god, this is the _best_ , you don't even know!”

     And then Terezi's bumbling over her own words as she tries to taste a dozen different patterns at once, saying _thank you thank you thank you_ ; but Kanaya doesn't feel as if she even needs thanks. She doesn't so much as glance at the rolls of fabric she's she's spent all this time wishing she could feel beneath her fingers and shape as she sees fit, because all that she can see is Terezi, and the way she's finally smiling again.

     Terezi throws a strip of apple-red fabric around the back of Kanaya's neck, and then tugs her closer, tongue thoroughly greeting Kanaya's lips before she sinks into a kiss. Kanaya laughs against her mouth, reaches out for a length of cloth of her own to wrap around Terezi, glad that there's always a way to chase out the darkness.


	10. blood from an arrow

  


     She says you may refer to her as the Captain or Marquise, or anything at all, really, but makes a note of appreciating titles. She doesn't ask what she should call you; you are _darling_ or _dear_ , stripped of name, rank, title and self.

     As the nights pass, you feel her in your mind as much as you do your bones, master that she is over you, and do all that you can to comfort yourself with the knowledge that she doesn't truly learn anything about you. Nothing beyond what she wishes to make of you, that is. When she tells you that you are lovely, she is only congratulating herself for having captured such a lovely creature, and then makes light of her place in life.

     Because she could kill you. She could kill you, higher on the spectrum as she is, and it wouldn't matter a jot in the eyes of the law. But that's the problem: it would be too easy for her to run you through, considered far too just by a system she makes mockery of. She finds her own ways to exert her power, and does not resort to simple, base murder, though she keeps blades hidden beneath her skirts, against her thighs. The ends of the daggers are hooked like one of her horns, and you keep your eyes on the gleaming metal throughout it all, desperate to fill your mind with thoughts of gaining enough autonomy in your wrists to draw a torrent of blood from a soft, grey throat.

     Yours or hers. It doesn't really matter to you, one way or another.

     When it's over and the Marquise is finally sated, she blithely informs you that you may clean yourself off. _Thank you_ , you say, only _you_ don't really say it, because more parts than you can count are still under her control. It comes and goes, during times like these, when she is inebriated by her own sense of self-satisfaction, almost pleased more by how easy you are to manipulate than your resulting actions. Her powers touch you very, very gently, slip between layers of skin and sinew, but never reside in one spot for long.

     You wish it wasn't this way. You wish her grasp was absolute at all times, because then you wouldn't have to constantly question yourself. You wouldn't have to always wonder whether each minute movement you make is your own or otherwise, and you wouldn't have to make yourself sick on the thought of her control not holding in the heat of the moment; you do not want to lose yourself to the momentum of it all, and you do not want to act freely, oblivious to your own power in the situation.

     There is a small basin in the corner, and you look at it, before glancing back at the Marquise. You are not certain whether you stay quite so still because she commands it of you or because you wish to be defiant, but you will not let yourself believe that when granted freedom, you find yourself frozen in fear. If you do not do as she's suggested, then there will be repercussions. Let them come, you think; you have already been to hell and back tonight and survived the journey, and what is one more trek to you? If you can entertain her with insubordination and take the punishment doled out, then perhaps she will not request your company so soon in the future.

     The Marquise makes eye contact with you, and you both realise you're trembling in the very same moment. You steal a deep breath, a movement you're certain is your own from the way the corners of her mouth twitch, and when that twitch becomes a smile, you feel _better_. The breath rushes out of you and takes the weight from your shoulders, and then your body stops shaking in a matter of moments, a familiar, warm feeling beginning to course through your veins and soothe your nerves.

     You want to choke on your next breath when you realise that it's her doing, but she won't have any of that. The backs of your eyes burn red-hot where she won't allow you to cry and the pressure mounts, and then she's moved closer to you. No matter what's already happened between the two of you, no matter how you convince yourself that you'll become accustomed to her ways, you never do. Her hand rests against your cheek and her thumb brushes across your skin as if tears actually are falling, and unblinking, you stare at her nails. They're long, sharp at the edges. She could take mercy on you, but she never does.

     Leaning forward, she kisses your parted lips, and murmurs _That's better_ as you instinctively turn from her, heading towards the sink. Your movements feel heavy, but that isn't to say that you're being manipulated. Everything about you is heavy, these days, everything worn down into a dull ache that she rarely ever lets you feel.

     Having decided that she is done with you for the night (or that you are done with her; either way) she does not stop you from turning on the taps, from running hot water. You bow your head, so as to avoid having to look in the mirror, washing your hands first, and then the sweat from your face. Once upon a time, in a situation like this, you would've thought of your ward to help remind you that not everything in this world is wretched and twisted, but now your mind remains empty, with the exception of what she sees fit to fill it with. There are parts of yourself that you can never allow her to pry open, even if the last part you have is the memory of a man long since expunged from history.

     Your thoughts are hers to claim, and you will not let her know why the space against your chest where you once held him has become so void.

     When the water becomes hot enough to scald, your hand reaches forward and turns on the cold tap. Definitely not a movement of your own. Parting your lips, teeth grit, you use your fingertips to scrub away the last traces of blue blood from between your fangs, where she has you bite her. This the Marquise allows, but you know she would never permit your fangs reaching your wrists, and so you quite simply do not try.

     You hear her say how wonderful you look, now that you're presentable, her words punctuated by the sound of her boots on the wooden floor. The two of you are almost the same height, but she has always managed to tower over you, in spite of any actual discrepancies. The Marquise stands behind you, body pressed to yours, and her hands rest almost tenderly on your shoulders.

     And though her touch is only physical, you remain as a statue, frozen there. You know that if you moved so much as an inch, she'd take hold of you once again. Even as her thumbs stroke the sides of your neck, you do all you can to savour the short seconds that your mind is fully your own again.

     She shows some kindness in not allowing you to become accustomed to the situation. Her grip tightens, fingers pressing hard against your pulse points, and then she tips your head up. Your gaze is forced to meet the mirror and the reflection of her eyes, and again she smiles, pointed teeth visible against black lips, lipstick long since worn off. Very carefully, she begins raking her fingers through your hair, and you have no choice but to watch as she puts it all back in place.

     Sometimes, you wonder if there was ever any hope for her. You wonder what happened in her life to make her this way, and if there was anything to be done to prevent this. She thinks herself malicious, but not a monster; she thinks that she has rescued you in stealing you away from a miserable life of slavery at the hands of sea dwellers. But there, at least, you would know what was true of yourself, and you would have the depths of the sea, if nothing else.

     Once she is done, and you feel less like yourself than ever, she wraps her arms tightly around your waist. Her chest presses up against your back as she drinks down a deep, happy breath, your thin robe doing nothing to keep the feel of her away. Lips tilted towards your ear, she murmurs red aspirations to you, and you both long for and dread the day you no longer remember that your movements and feelings are hers to sway; that your every thought and action belongs to her, those she no longer has to manipulate you into especially.

     Because only then will you have truly left your old life behind, the self you are so desperate to protect. It will be easy, when you're a husk, void of everything but love for the Marquise.

     It will be easy, when you no longer have to spend every waking moment aware of what a pathetic, terrifying creature she is, proud of what she'll make the ruins of you into.


	11. TH3 B1G D4Y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in roughly the same universe as [The Earth of a Hundred Nations](http://archiveofourown.org/works/266110) and [breathe in, breathe out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/293776), though reading those isn't in any way necessary!

  


     Your name is Terezi Pyrope and you've just licked your way through your twenty-third consecutive bridal magazine.

     You may have a problem.

     Up until today, you had absolutely no idea that shades of smooth, silky whites could hold so many flavours, even through glossy print, and that's not even mentioning the entire volumes dedicated to wedding cakes. God, the _cakes_. Some of them have to be as tall as you are! You've always had a vague idea of what marriage was, in the sense of it being an absurd human romance ritual, but you've only just come to appreciate the unspeakable beauty of a wedding.

     Not only does it involve one of the aforementioned cakes, but it's also an excuse for a party on a scale you've never experienced before, as well as being a fascinating legal process. As you sprawl across your sofa, strung out on all the different dresses and cakes and floral arrangements that you've only tasted in the print, you come to an immediate, irrevocable decision. You're certain that a collective shudder runs down the spines of your friends for reasons unbeknownst to them, because once you've made up your mind, there's no changing it.

     The law does not bend, and so there absolutely has to be a wedding.

     Preferably, as soon as is physically possible.

     From what you've been lead to believe, marriage is an activity designed purely for the reddest quadrant, which doesn't leave you personally with many options. You ignore the majority of your current relationship entanglements, and upon noting that your matesprit is none other than Vriska Serket, you decide that no, it won't be your own wedding you attend. The most romantic thing Vriska ever does is pick out the red Smarties whenever she's digging into a tube and flicks them your way, which, given, is oddly thoughtful when it comes to her, but the point still stands that it's more of a _human_ ceremony, anyway.

     As the gears in your head begin to turn and the resulting clacking noise becomes a terrible cackle, the living room door opens, and in strolls Vriska, like she knew you were thinking about her. From the smell of her, she must have just showered, because she's all warm water and fruity cleanness (you only buy the most luminous of scented shower gels), with what seems to be a damp towel draped across her shoulders. The red shorts and black shirt with your teal symbol slapped across the chest are immediately recognisable, and ugh, you wish that she'd start wearing her own clothing. Not that you don't like the red shorts, but because there's the small issue of her wings, and the resulting shirt-mutilation that's required to facilitate them.

     “What the hell is wrong with you?” Vriska asks, and then unapologetically sits down against the very centre of the sofa. The sofa that you're still sprawled out across, and as a result, you're now suffering her pointy butt digging into your stomach. There's a rustle of paper as she picks up one of the magazines, and then she heaves a great, long-suffering sigh. “You licked all the text off the pages again, you moron! You're going to get ink poisoning.”

     You wiggle on the sofa, trying to get her to budge. She only makes herself more comfortable against you.

     “Maybe I'll get ink poisoning and hallucinate that I have a kind, loving matesprit!”

     You practically hear her eyes roll in her skull, and then she's looking down at you, both palms pressed to your cheeks. Slowly shaking her head, she pats her hands against your cheeks over and over until you start laughing again.

     Which takes around three seconds.

     “Pass me my husktop!” you demand, and it's so obvious that you're up to something that Vriska doesn't even _ask_ what it is, wanting to spare herself the headache. 

     When she leans forward to pick it up from the coffee table, you take advantage of the brief cutting of contact and pull your torso to safety. She sits back down, husktop between her hands, and you nestle yourself against her side, wrangling it free of her grasp. She lets go, more interested in the television, and sits with one arm around your shoulders as you fire up Pesterchum.

     The thing about you and Vriska is that neither one of you considers it unusual to stumble across twenty-three thoroughly licked magazines in your living room.

     “Aren't you going to ask me what I'm planning this time? It's very devious!”

     “I honestly don't want to know,” Vriska grunts, turning the volume up a few bars on the TV, kissing your forehead as she does so.

     Well, you gave her every opportunity to uncover what you were doing and put an end to your scheming. You're effectively morally and ethically free to go ahead with this, full-steam.

> gallowsCalibrator [GC]  began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA]

>   
>  GC: K4N4Y4  
>  GA: JUST TH3 R41NBOW DR1NK3R 1 W4S S34RCH1NG FOR   
>  GA: And Coincidentally The Only Rainbow Drinker You Were Attempting To Seek Out I Would Assume  
>  GA: Hello Terezi  
>  GA: How Many I Help You Today   
>  GC: YOU C4N ST4RT BY S4T1NG MY CUR1OS1TY  
>  GC: WH3NS TH3 B1G D4Y?   
>  GA: The Big Day  
>  GA: Well  
>  GA: Summer Solstice Falls In June Though I Highly Doubt This Is What You Were Referring To   
>  GC: OF COURS3 TH4T W4SNT WH4T 1 W4S R3F3R1NG TO  
>  GC: J3GUS K4N4Y4, FOR SO SOM3ON3 SM4RT SOM3T1M3S YOU GR4SP TH3 WRONG 3ND OF TH3 UND3RST4ND1NG ST1CK 4ND DRUB YOUR OWN 1NT3LL1G3NC3 TO 4 F1N3 PULP W1TH 1T   
>  GA: An Excellent Metaphor  
>  GA: Not That I Cant Say I Dont Often Get In My Own Way So My Belittling Of Your Rather Unique Method Of Calling Into Question My Cognitive Process Is Rather Moot  
>  GA: In Fact Having Lived With Vriska For So Very Long I Am Surprised You Still Take The Time To Think Up Well Meant Insults Beyond Idiot Moron Retard Etc  
>  GA: You Know How Her Vernacular Can Be   
>  GC: >:?  
>  GC: H4V1NG L1V3D W1TH ROS3 FOR SO V3RY LONG 1 4M SURPR1S3D SH3 H4S NOT KN1TT3D YOU 4 MUZZL3 TO K33P TH3 N3V3R 3ND1NG R4MBL1NG 4T B4Y  
>  GC: H3H3H3H3H3   
>  GA: Umm Okay  
>  GA: Now That We Have Referenced One Anothers Scarlet Partners Let Us Move Onto The Actual Point  
>  GA: Not That I Wouldnt Love To Sit Here And Read Your Expertly Transcribed Laughter   
>  GC: 1T 1S TH3 LOV3LY L4V3ND4R L4LOND3 1 4M H3R3 TO T4LK 4BOUT   
>  GA: Wow Sometimes I Still Get Uncomfortable When I Think About How Much You Enjoy Licking Her Chat Windows   
>  GC: >:]   
>  GA: Urrgh Terezi Would You Please Just Force The Words To Leave Your Mouth In A Manner Resembling The Way Humans And Trolls Alike Rid Their Mouths Of Excess Saliva   
>  GC: WH3NS TH3 W3DD1NG, DUMMY   
>  GA: I  
>  GA: What  
>  GA: When Is The What    
>  GC: TH3 HUM4N M4RR14G3 C3R3MONY  
>  GC: TH3 L4WFUL PROC3SS TH4T 3T3RN4LLY B1NDS TWO HUM4N G1RLFR13NDS TOG3TH3R  
>  GC: 4S LONG 4S L4WY3RS DO NOT G3T 1NTO TH3 P1CTUR3   
>  GA: I Am Well Aware Of What A Wedding Is Thank You  
>  GA: I Simply  
>  GA: Find Myself Boggled As To Why You Think I Have A Wedding Planned   
>  GC: K4N4Y4, K4N4Y4, K4N4Y4  
>  GC: HOW M4NY 4BSURDLY SHORT CYCL3S OF TH3 34RTHS SUN H4V3 YOU B33N W1TH ROS3 FOR?   
>  GA: Err  
>  GA: Five Of Them  
>  GA: Five Of Them Last November   
>  GC: 3X4CTLY!  
>  GC: DONT YOU TH1NK 1TS T1M3 TH4T YOU TOOK TH1NGS TO TH3 N3XT L3V3L?  
>  GC: 1 KNOW TH4T HUM4NS 4R3 ONLY US3D TO ON3 QU4DR4NT, BUT WH4T 4 COMPL1C4T3D ON3 1T 1S  
>  GC: TH3R3 4R3 SO M4NY 4SP3CTS TO 1T  
>  GC: SO M4NY D1FF3R3NT T13RS TO R34CH  
>  GC: MUCH L1K3 TH3 4M4Z1NG C4K3 YOU COULD H4V3 4T YOUR W3DD1NG >:]   
>  GA: Absolutely Not  
>  GA: Rose And I Are Perfectly Happy With The Way Things Are And I See No Reason To Change That Due To An Antiquated Human Tradition  
>  GA: After All We Are Hardly Traditional  
>  GA: If You Are That Desperate To Attend A Wedding Then Why Not Ask For Vriskas Hand In Marriage   
>  GC: H4H4H4H4H4H4  
>  GC: H3H3H3H3H3H3H3H3  
>  GC: HAHAHAHAHAHAH   
>  GA: Shit   
>  GC: H3H3H3H3H3H3H3H3H3H3   
>  GA: Shit  
>  GA: I Really Didnt Think That Through  
>  GA: Okay I Apologise For Such An Absurd Suggestion   
>  GC: VR1SK4S 1D34 OF ROM4NC3 1NVOLV3S SL4PP1NG MY BUTT 1N PUBL1C 4ND T3LL1NG M3 1 LOOK HOT TO S33 HOW M4NY P3OPL3 SH3 C4N M4K3 UNCOMFORT4BL3  
>  GC: 4ND H3R CONC3PT OF COMM1TMENT R3VOLV3S SOL3LY 4ROUND ST34L1NG MY CLOTH1NG W1THOUT F1RST 4SK1NG WH3TH3R OR NOT SH3 C4N SL4SH 1T OP3N TO 4CCOMMOD4T3 H3R W1NGS  
>  GC: 1T H4S B33N 4 WOND3RFUL THR33 Y34RS   
>  GA: I Would Almost Feel Sorry For You If I Wasnt Certain You Encouraged It  
>  GA: Well That First Part At Least   
>  GC: YOU 4R3 D1S4PPO1NT1NG M3 SO MUCH H3R3  
>  GC: YOU H4V3 NO 1D34!  
>  GC: NO HUM4N R3L4T1ONSH1P 1S COMPL3T3 W1THOUT 4 W3DD1NG  
>  GC: 1 THOUGHT YOU WOULD B3 4LL OV3R TH1S K4N4Y4  
>  GC: CONS1D3R1NG TH4T 1T 1S M3R3LY 4N 3XCUS3 TO W34R F4NCY DR3SS3S   
>  GA: Hmmm   
>  GC: HMMMMMMMM?   
>  GA: Oh Its Just That I Never Looked At It In That Way Before   
>  GC: D1D 1 M3NT1ON TH4T TH3S3 DR3SS3S 4R3 3NT1R3LY UN1QU3  
>  GC: ON3 OF 4 K1ND  
>  GC: M4D3 3SP3C14LLY FOR TH4T D4Y 4ND TH4T D4Y 4LON3   
>  GA: I Am Perfectly Aware Of What Youre Trying To Do Here Terezi   
>  GC: TH3Y W1LL B3 TH3 C3NTR3 OF 4TT3NT1ON  
>  GC: P3OPL3 W1LL T4LK 4BOUT TH3M FOR Y34RS TO COM3  
>  GC: B4B1ES AND W1GGL3RS 4L1K3 W1LL B3 PUT TO SL33P W1TH T4L3S OF HOW M4GN1F1C3NTLY M4GN1F1C3NT TH3 G4RM3NTS TRULY W3R3  
>  GC: HOW TH3 M4T3R14L FLOW3D L1K3 TH3 F4BR1C FORM OF 4NG3LS T34RS  
>  GC: TH3R3 W1LL B3 4 N3V3R 3ND1NG PHOTO 4LBUM D3D1C4T3D TO SHOTS OF TH3 DR3SS3S  
>  GC: PL4C3D SO PROUDLY ON YOUR COFF33 T4BL3, R34DY TO C1V1LY TORM3NT HOUS3 GU3STS W1TH  
>  GC: SUBJ3CT1NG TH3M TO P4G3 4FT3R P4G3 OF GLOR1OUS MONUM3NTS TO F4SH1ON   
>  GA: Terezi  
>  GA: I Get The Point You Are None Too Subtly Making Here   
>  GC: YOU LOV3 ROS3 DONT YOU >:?   
>  GA: Yes  
>  GA: Absolutely  
>  GA: That Much Goes Without Needing To Be Said  
>  GA: In Spite Of My Habit Of Often Saying As Much  
>  GA: But I Am Afraid I Cannot Be Swayed Quite So Easily   
>  GC: K44444444N4Y4   
>  GA: As Much As Id Enjoy Staying Here To Discuss This  
>  GA: Which Is To Say Not At All  
>  GA: By Any Stretch Of The Imagination  
>  GA: Rose And I Are Expected At Her Mothers House Any Time Now   
>  GC: HMPH  
>  GC: 4 L1K3LY STORY  
>  GC: 4T L34ST TH1NK 4BOUT WH4T 1V3 S41D   
>  GA: Im Quite Sure I Wont Be Able To Get It Out Of My Mind   
>  GC: >:]   
> 

> gallowsCalibrator [GC]  ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA]

     With a satisfied smile, you silently congratulate yourself. Now that the idea's been planted in Kanaya's head, you know it won't take long for it to fully take root and be deliberated over with the sort of serious consideration it deserves. This may prove to be your greatest feat yet, if you can truly convince her to propose to Rose, all to get your teeth and tongue into one of those cakes, but if anyone can do it, it's you. Especially because you know Kanaya's weaknesses all so well.

     Now that your typing's drawn to a close, Vriska snatches your husktop away from you, and begins using the hem of the shirt she's thoroughly ruined to wipe your spit away from the screen. Attention still half on the television, she scrolls through the Pesterlog, groaning when she gets to the end.

     “Oh my god, Pyrope,” she growls under her breath, “You can't twist Fussyfang's arm into _getting married_. Ugh, I just know she's going to want me to be her best man, or some dumb shit like that!”

     “So you really think my plan is going to work?” That's about all you get out of what she's just said. “I'm moved by the faith you have in me!”

     Grinning, you throw both arms around her shoulders and press your nose against her cheek, waiting for her to stop fuming over any imagined upcoming moirail-obligations. Vriska lasts about eight seconds before you feel the muscles you currently have your face pressed against pull upwards into a smile, and while she may not be romantic in the least, you can tell that she is very, very red for you indeed.

*

     Weeks in the future, but not many, you're expertly piecing together a make-your-own-cupcakes box set. Most of the silly icing decals have ended up pressed against your face, and you idly try reaching them with the tip of your tongue as you keep both hands busy in a never ending effort to make yet more cake mix. If cakes had the autonomy to fill quadrants, then you would happily leave Vriska Serket forever, frostingless bag of bones that she is.

     Laughing under your breath at the thought, you seek out your tube of blue icing, tucking it behind your ear so that you remember to decorate the next batch with tiny, delicious spiders.

     Your husktop pings from the opposite counter, and you spin on your heels, licking the screen to see who's messaging you. You keep your cake mix-covered hands held in the air as you do so, as if waiting to see whether it's worth washing your hands in order to type up a response.

     Oh.

     _Oh_ , yes, it certainly is.

     Hands clean in a matter of moments, you pull a misplaced piece of icing from your cheek, chewing on it nervously as you start typing your response.

> tentacleTherapist [TT]  began pestering gallowsCalibrator [GC] 

>   
> 
> 
> TT: Pyrope.  
>  TT: I'm going to be straight with you. I'm not going to beat around the metaphorical bush, though doing so would undoubtedly only serve to cause a hefty amount of stress to rack your nerves. Which, all things considered, you deserve nothing less than right now.  
>  TT: But let me simply say:  
>  TT: If you ever -- _ever_ \-- see fit to interfere with my business again, especially when it pertains to that of a romantic nature, then any pale feelings I barely remember how to cling onto for you will promptly turn into a hatred so deep and so very, very platonic that you spend the rest of your sorely numbered days weeping for the spade-shaped void in your life, along with the harsh reminder of a black romance you could have that relentlessly I bring about, but never acquiesce to or embrace.  
>  TT: Are we clear?  
>  GC: 1  
>  GC: 4M JUST 4BOUT 4S T3RR1F13D 4S 1 4M 1NR1GU3D R1GHT NOW  
>  GC: 1N F4CT 1 TH1NK MY V1S1ON JUST MOM3NT4R1LY R3TURN3D TO M3 SO TH4T 1 COULD S33 JUST HOW CL34R W3 R34LLY 4R3  
> TT: Good.  
>  TT: And now, as per my previous reference to our barely-intact moirallegiance, you're going to have to help me out.  
> GC: Y3S OF COURS3 4NYTH1NG ROS3  
>  GC: BUT 3RM  
>  GC: H3LP W1TH WH4T >:?  
> TT: I have absolutely no idea of what I'm expected to do, or how to go about any of it. I'm afraid my steely independence does fall short, in some matters.  
>  TT: But considering that it's you I'm seeking assistance from,  
>  TT: I expect that we'll be starting with the matter of the cake, won't we?  
> 

     Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are the greatest wedding planner this universe or any other has ever known.


	12. skin of your teeth

     You're shin-deep in rotting food and grease-slick pizza boxes when you meet her. 

     You know this part of town like the back of your hand, and you know what you can and can't get away with. Or you thought you did, anyway, because the only thing you have to guard against during daylight hours is other humans, and your ilk tend to sleep the hottest part of the day away. So maybe you let your guard down, what with the peeling posters haphazardly slapped against crumbling brick walls, announcing that this area is patrolled by a remaining faction of the police force at sundown. You got comfortable, thinking you were safe in this corner of the city, and thought you could take something that wasn't yours.

     And so there you are, wading through a dumpster, caught between a fast food joint and an apartment. It's a prime hunting ground. What with the ocean of trash and god knows what swirling around your street-stained pants, you don't hear her approach until it's too late; until she's jumped in there with you.

     Now you're holding your hands above your head, back arching as you feel the tip of a knife press against it. 

     “I'm so—” you begin, not one to offer up apologies in anything but the most dire of situations. 

     “Shut up,” she hisses, and you swallow the lump in your throat when she jabs the knife against you a little harder. It's her lack of restraint that makes you realise that she's panicking, and not merely trying to frighten you. “What the fuck do you think you're doing here? This is _my_ home.”

     She stretches her free arm as she speaks, points over your shoulder and you look to where she's gesturing. There's a stack of newspapers in the corner, along with a beat-up old sleeping bag and an array of flattened cardboard boxes. She's clearly claimed this alley for herself. You can't help but notice how dirty her hand is, and almost give into the temptation to let your gaze wander from her hand to elbow to shoulder to face, but moving too much in this situation can't be good for you.

     There's a slice and a half of pizza left on an open box in front of you, and if you make any sudden movements, she might think you're going to snatch it for yourself. People have been shanked for less in the past, and you don't trust her not to be spectacularly jumpy. 

     “I didn't look,” you tell her, and it's true. Two consecutive days of surviving off half a cup of coffee someone took enough pity on you to hand over and the three squares of chocolate you had left in your pocket have made you reckless. “I'm not looking to start any trouble, as I very much doubt I could stand my ground. You clearly have me at a disadvantage, so if you'll let me move on—”

     “You'll _what_?” she asks, and then pats a hand down against your sides, tutting loudly when she can't feel anything hidden away. 

     “I'll leave you to the pizza, and steer clear of this alleyway in the future,” you say firmly, and when you hear her breathing pick up, you imagine her eyes darting around frantically as she tries to decide what to do with you. “Come now. I'm obviously no threat to you, and killing me would only provide you with an inconvenience. Not to mention all the untoward attention it would attract.”

     There's a long, heavy pause, and then she spits out the word _fine_ , but doesn't remove the blade for a good few seconds. Once the muscles in your back dare to relax, you lower your hands to the side of the dumpster, showing you have every intention of absconding, and then hoist yourself up and over before turning to look at her. 

     Her eyes are fixed on you even as she gravitates towards the discarded pizza, not yet daring to pick it up, lest you try stealing it from her. She grasps onto her knife that's now entirely ineffective with the distance between you, unless she tries throwing it, and you don't have much faith in her actually managing to hit you. Not with the patch she has placed across one eye, anyway. There's dirt on her face and just as much filth caught in what was probably blonde hair, once upon a time, and she can't be any older than you are. Nineteen, at the most.

     She's wearing a scowl which you doubt she has to force, but more worryingly than that, there's fresh blood seeping through the tattered orange of her hoodie.

     “Go!” she says, frantically pointing the knife towards the alley's exit. 

     Frowning, you take a step back towards the dumpster, lips pursed together very, very tightly as you try thinking of politest way to phrase your question. You're apprehensive, suddenly, and not entirely certain why you don't turn and run, but logic tells you that what's hurt her hasn't caused an infection to spread. Not yet, anyway.

     “How did you... ?” you being with vivid vagueness, gesturing towards the wound she's tried burying under her clothing. The ever-present dizziness that hunger brings doesn't grant you much of a way with words.

     “It's not what you think,” she snaps, and then looks a little scared, like you're going to leap to your own conclusions and do what you have to in order to protect yourself. “It's the middle of the goddamn day! It's just—Chriiiiiiiist, you know how it is. You go walking in certain places, and everyone who drives by assumes you're a whore! Sometimes you have remind them that no means no!”

     There's a certain spark of bravado in her voice that somehow makes the knife in her hand look less threatening, and you splay your fingertips out against the rusted edge of the dumpster, peering up at her.

     “Let me guess: I should see the other guy. Now, if you'll get out of there, I can do something about the bleeding.”

     Her gaze narrows in instant suspicion, and honestly, you don't know why you're offering to help her out any more than she does. Some part of you would foolishly like to believe that if you were in the same situation, someone would help you, but more than that, you need to feel that there's some purpose in your seemingly endless drifting.

     She looks as if she's more worried about losing the pizza than any more blood, but with the next step she takes forward, the pain finally gets to her, and she does her best not to double over.

     “—alright,” she grumbles under her breath, clutching the side of the dumpster. “But everything in here is mine, okay? All of it!”

*

     Her name is Vriska Serket, and she's been on the streets for two years and three months.

     That's a whole year and a half longer than you, and when she reluctantly gives you her age, you realise that you could've gone to school together, back in the old world. Back before, as your late mother put it, things really went to shit, and everyone's main concern became keeping their flesh puncture-free. People always have this oddly guilty, but ultimately justified, look in their eyes, whenever they see you sat in the streets, begging for spare change in a battered old coffee cup. They throw you loose coins, as if your being homeless is providing a service of protection for them; those sleeping rough are always the first to go, whenever the zombies ramble into town.

     Vriska's done well to survive this long. She tells you that it's because there's no meat on her bones, and you smile to yourself, thinking it has more to do with the baseball bat she has safely stowed away in the corner of the alley. Some people were born to survive by the skin of their teeth, and Vriska Serket certainly numbers amongst those who actually stand a chance in this world.

     The wound on her stomach isn't as bad as you initially thought it would be. The knife that was wielding against her went in at a funny sort of angle, leaving more of a slash across her waist, rather than any deep, lasting damage. You clean it up as best as you can with grubby hands, and at some point, her continued complaining and voiced suspicions subside into a much more tolerable bout of unconsciousness.

     You stay by her side, partly because your legs are simultaneously too heavy and too light to stand on, a poor sense of balance inspired by your total lack of food, but more so because the alleyway provides some meagre form of protection for you both. She's survived for over two years on her own, but leaving her now just wouldn't sit right with you.

     Making yourself comfortable against scrunched up newspaper, you drape her sleeping bag sideways across your laps, and manage to sleep for no more than an hour yourself.

     When you blink your eyes open, coming to terms with the fact that you're _not_ under a bridge crossing a dried out river, you look down at Vriska, watching as she stirs next to you. Her hands keep covering her stomach as she murmurs gibberish in her sleep, and though you offered to take her to the hospital, in actuality, you echo her sentiment of not trusting anyone enough for that.

     Her lack of trust is only emphasised when she wakes, immediately starts, and goes for your throat with both hands. You can tell that her vision is still bleary from unwanted sleep, and you wrap your hands as tightly as you can around her wrists, forcefully reassuring her that it's alright.

     She blinks heavily a few times, and the grip around your throat loosens, though she doesn't move her hands away entirely.

     “Oh—” she mumbles, and then does her best to place who you are. “Rose? The hell are you still doing here?”

     “Someone had to keep an eye out,” you tell her, pulling her hands away from your neck. She relents, hands rubbing against her face as she tries to wake herself up properly. “You passed out, Vriska. More from exhaustion than any substantial injury, but you're hardly in the best condition to protect yourself.”

     Vriska snaps that she's managed just fine on her own, says that she doesn't need anyone, and shoots you yet another glare. The eye patch covering her seemingly useless left eye tells a very different story indeed, and you berate yourself for actually making the effort to keep her in one piece. Especially as it's been less than seven hours since she last had a knife pressed to your back, willing to slice you in two over a few scraps of pizza.

     She's right. The only person you should depend on out here is yourself, and you know absolutely nothing about her that sets her apart from any other stranger. She's probably considered knocking you out for the clothes on your back and whatever's in your pockets at least three times already, and you can't allow yourself to act as if she owes you something for what you've done to help her.

     With a sneer, Vriska pulls herself to her feet, one hand grabbing the back of her pants and tugging them up as she stands. Her clothing is all horribly baggy on her, and probably didn't even fit properly, back when she had a home and something like regular meals. She stretches her arms out over her head, and you watch, finding it strange that she hasn't told you to fuck off yet.

     You hug your knees to your chest, deciding that you'll embrace the refuge for as long as she tolerates you. It's hardly as if you have anywhere better to be.

     “It's getting dark,” she says, as if that's your fault, and then pulls herself into the dumpster.

     You watch as she dives inside of it, your own stomach rumbling as the soles of her shoes clang against metal sides. You'd do the very same thing that Vriska is, if you could, but she's already made it abundantly clear that this is her territory. There's little point in pushing your luck any further around her, and so you do nothing but wait for her to emerge with the spoils she uncovers. It doesn't take long, because she knows what she's doing and she's not afraid to put her hand or face in anything disgusting.

     Five minutes later, give or take, she hops out over the side, arms full of half a pot of takeaway pasta (probably three days old, give or take), a Coke bottle still two-thirds full, and a stripy red wrapper that probably has a greasy burger that's seen better days stored safely inside of it. Not a bad haul you think, distantly impressed.

     She sits down opposite you, legs crossed, and tucks her food away against her lap. She digs into the pasta first, probably wanting to save the Coke to wash the taste away, and you pretend that your stomach doesn't clench in pain and envy when she starts eating with her fingers. You note the way her knife is tucked in her back pocket, the fact that she's still injured, but then fail to do anything about it. 

     “So why'd you run away?” she asks, chewing obnoxiously loudly. “You don't reeeeeeeeally seem like the streetrat type! Ugh, don't tell me they ate your family or something lame like that.”

     The bluntness of her words actually manages to take you aback, and you can't do anything but stare at her for a moment, lips slightly parted. But it doesn't take you long to realise that your sob story isn't exactly an uncommon one, and then nod slightly. Of all the things that have happened since the infection began to spread, the fact that people still live out their lives as if nothing has changed is what gets to you most. You don't understand how they can continue making their way to their jobs and back to their families of an evening, as if their lives aren't in even more of a constant threat than they were before.

     “My mother,” you murmur under your breath, though she was probably satisfied with the nodding. Your whole life was turned upside down the day they broke into your house and took her, not you, and you didn't realise how much you had in that damn house until it was ripped apart while you hid in one of the kitchen cupboards, peering out through a crack running along the ajar door.

     “That sucks,” she says, using the back of her hand to wipe at the corner of her lips, pushing a stubborn piece of pasta into her mouth. She seems to consider something, for a moment, and then tosses the still-wrapped burger towards you with a sentiment that says _sorry about your dead mom_. 

     You snatch it out of the air, and look at her questioningly, not daring to unwrap it. Your hands are trembling a little. Vriska just rolls her one eye at you and laughs for the first time, and then you're tearing the packaging open before you can realise how grateful you are.

     The meat's cold and mushy, the lettuce has turned brown and the mayonnaise is congealing, but you've never tasted anything so good in the entirety of your life. Not that you taste much, what with how fast you eat it, but quickly enough your stomach's not aching quite so much and your head stops spinning, and you're thanking her as you lick your fingers clean.

     She tells you that it's no big deal with no conviction in her voice, and you _know_ that it is, because homeless kids don't just squander their food on near-enough strangers. Even if said strangers did patch up their stomach. Deciding that dropping the subject is preferable to making her uncomfortable, the two of you chat about much of nothing, and you realise how much you've missed having someone else to talk to. Everything you say to one another is entirely inane and instantly forgettable, but that doesn't seem to matter.

     Your watch, one thing you've yet to pawn for food money, tells you it's just gone eight o'clock, a few minutes before it happens. Vriska's telling you about a _great_ sandwich shop five blocks away that is totally worth the walk, because one of the employees who works there a few nights a week will sneak out the unsold stock to the local homeless crowd. There's always a chance of grabbing something that's practically fresh, as long as you're quick on your feet and not afraid of pushing past stocky guys who perpetually smell of booze, apparently. You're about to suggest that the two of you head there together tomorrow evening, because surely two sets of hands are better than one, when the whole street lights up with the ice-blue flash of sirens.

     Vriska's eye goes wide and she grabs at your sleeve before you can anticipate what she's going to do, and then she's pulling you across the width of the alley, throwing the two of you against the back of the dumpster, out of view of the street. The back of your head thwacks against the metal and you would yelp out, but Vriska's already got her palm pressed to your mouth.

     “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” she hisses under her breath, “Why the fuck are they here?”

     Your eyes go wide in confusion as your head finally stops spinning, and you grab at Vriska's wrist, tearing her hand away from your mouth.

     “It's not them,” you say, desperate to reassure her so that you, in turn, can force your heart to stop pounding against your ribs. “It's the _police_ , Vriska. Calm down.”

     She presses her herself against the dumpster, screws her eyes shut and tilts her head back, and though you've just met her, you know something must be _really_ wrong if she's actively trying to subdue herself. She grabs at your shoulder, this time, tugging you close so that she can hiss right into your ear.

     “Goddamn retard,” she berates you in terse whisper. “I don't know how the hell you're survived on the streets for this long if you don't hide from the police.”

     She shoots you a warning glare, and there's something in her expression that she immediately regrets. She feels that she's putting herself in danger by helping you, but at the same time, rationalises pulling you to what she considers to be safety by reminding herself that if you get caught, she gets caught, too.

     You know what Vriska's getting at. You've heard rumours. Everyone's heard rumours, and everyone chooses to ignore them, as they do with so much of this situation. The undead move in swarms, ramble towards the city's outskirts whenever they need to feed, and you're hardly surprised that all sorts of unsavoury accusations have come of this. The police pick up the homeless, you've heard, and take them to what they claim to be safety, but in reality, is nothing but a literal human barrier to keep the zombies sated.

     You try not to believe this.

     You try not to believe in anything, these days.

     “It's the police,” you whisper back to her, head tilted towards hers, like that means anything. “They aren't going to hunt us down.”

     “That's how they get away with it. Nobody believes what they do, because who would give enough of a shit to report you missing? Your mom's not exactly going to take matters into her own hands! Jesus, don't look at me like that. I'm in the exact same situation as you. _My_ parents didn't care enough to file a missing person's report before all this zombie bullshit broke out.”

     You go through a lot in the space of the few seconds it takes her to snap at you. Apathy, at first, for not caring how misplaced you become; anger, secondly, for the way she speaks of your mother; and then something like camaraderie, when you realise that here is the only person who could possibly understand what it is you're going through.

     The only person who wouldn't make your situation ten times worse for the sake of securing themselves a meal or a quick break from the reality of their life.

     You place a hand on Vriska's shoulder, and with your eyes closed, silently wait for the bright blue lights to stop passing.

*

     For a week, Vriska Serket tolerates your presence. The streets become oddly quiet, and though the both of you know what that means, neither of you comment on it. Instead, you work together, creating a stock pile for yourselves at the end of the alley. The alley which she takes every opportunity to assure you is still hers and hers alone.

     You watch Vriska as she works, soon learning that she really is a remarkable thief. Being around her makes you realise that you truly know nothing about living on the streets, and for the first time, you acquiesce, finally allowing someone else to help you out. In a way, you feel like she's doing the very same thing. You think about what Vriska said to you on that first night in the alley, and wonder how you really have survived this long.

     The only reason you've avoided the police thus far is because you've been running from everything, and just like that, you're accepting whatever conspiracy theories she spouts as the god honest truth. 

     It's easy to go along with most things, in a world like this, where the dead don't always stay down for long. When you think back to the life you used to lead and all that you owned, from the house your mother saw fit to raise you in that would've been too big for a dozen people to your endless texts on psychology, your violin and your laptop, you wonder what on earth you did to fill your time that didn't revolve around your constant need to fight to survive.

     Neither of you have said as much, but you make a good team. You haven't had this much food to yourself since you lived under the safety of a roof, and the two of you take it in turns to keep watch whenever sleep becomes a necessity, rather than something you can hope to stave off. It's easier, drifting off when you know there's someone there standing over you. Some nights, the dreams barely even bother you at all.

     When you aren't creating a diversion for Vriska to pick pockets or stocking up on food, the two of you guard Vriska's alley, slumped against one another for comfort. You talk about much of nothing, sometimes, and simply reminisce about how great showers were, but at other times, Vriska will tell you things. Things like how she lost the eye before running away, and how she'd only been fifteen, back then. She doesn't tell you much more than that, but your shoulders tense a little and you pat her head, thinking that you'd run away too, if one of your eyes was taken from you.

     But when seven days pass and the streets become dead silent, the two of you know that something big is coming. This happens once a fortnight, more or less: the zombies try to breach the better defended parts of town, showing absolutely no discrimination in who they take. In some of the newspapers that double as your bedding, you've read reports that state how the authorities really must be doing an admirable job of keeping them at bay, if they're only attempting to break through twice a month. You laugh flatly at this, knowing well enough that the zombies only come twice a month because that's roughly how long it takes for the food supplies they drag back to diminish. Not because they're being held back. 

     As more and more people become infected and their numbers grow, the zombies' attacks are only going to become more and more frequent. It's only a matter of time before there's more of them than there are of you.

     “Shouldn't we go?” you ask Vriska when the sun begins to set and you find yourself restless. “It'll only be for a night or two. We can afford to spend that long in the centre of the city, and—”

     “Nope.”

     “But if we pack our supplies, then we—”

     “Noooooooope.”

     Vriska lifts her brow in what may be the politest request she's ever made for you to shut the hell up, and gets to her feet. As she heads to the back corner of the alley, her fingers idly brush over the handle of her baseball bat, though she passes it by in favour of one of the smaller bins placed next to a fire escape. She grabs the edge of the rim with both hands and rotates, rocking it from side to side with the momentum she creates, and after a great scraping of metal against concrete, she kneels down. 

     It takes you a moment to see what she's gathering up, but when she turns back towards you, she's got a crowbar between both of her hands. She grips it tightly, hesitates for a moment, and after taking a step forward, hands it down to you. You stare up at it dumbly and she practically has to shove it into your hands before you take it. The heart of the city has never been safe, especially not for the nameless people of the street like you, but you're still not certain you want to take your chances here with only a hefty piece of metal to protect you.

     Without a word, Vriska takes her baseball bat, swings it around her once, and then slowly and rhythmically strikes her open palm with it.

     “We're not running?” you ask, getting to your feet. 

     “We're not running,” she says with a grin, “We're going to show these chumps who's boss.”

     You frown, because all of the foolish courage she radiates is almost contagious. 

     “That's—” You pause. Dangerous? Stupid? You wonder what manner of death wish she has. “Admirable.”

     Vriska takes another step your way and glares down at you, all of her teeth on display when she decides to grin again.

     “Fuck you, Lalonde. You can't keep running from them forever. Because if you don't learn to deal with them while they're still getting their disgusting bearings on this city, then you're going to be eight kinds of screwed when they _really_ know what they're doing!” She jabs two fingers against your collarbone, stepping forward when you can't help but stumble back. “So this is what we do! We advance or abscond. We keep on powering through, because they're slow and stupid, wading through their own shit, and we _ain't_.”

     Funny. They didn't seem slow or stupid when they wrestled your mother's rifle from her hands.

     Setting your jaw, you stare back up at her, doing your best to make your expression as unreadable as possible. In the same moment, your hands tighten around the crowbar, because dammit all, it _would_ feel good to carelessly dismantle a whole wave of zombies with all the force built up inside of you. Vriska hasn't given it to you for no reason. 

     “If I get bitten,” you begin, and then immediately press a finger to Vriska's lips to silence her, when she goes to protest, “I want you to take your baseball bat, Vriska, and do what you must.”

     You feel her smirk against your finger, and you think she's going to jab you against the chest again. Instead, she grabs herself a handful of your shirt, and pulls you up onto your tiptoes. Nudging your hand out of the way, she presses her lips to yours, and the first thought that crosses your mind in spite of how _disgusting_ your respective mouths must be, is that it's _warm_. She clings to her baseball bat and you hold your crowbar, and you both make awkward, fumbled attempts to hold each other in the same moment.

     It gets your blood pumping, as if you need anything more to spur you on in the upcoming fight.

     When you break away from her, your knuckles have turned white around the crowbar.

     On tiptoes still, you see the faint silhouettes of bodies swaying at the very edges of the city, blots against the horizon, and the cartoonish groans that fill your mind make the bile rise up in your throat.

     “Wouldn't have it any other way,” Vriska says, taking your hand in her own as the two of you make your way onto the main street. “Now what the fuck are we waiting for?”

     What indeed.

     You're starting to think that you've been waiting for this day for longer than you know how to say.


	13. tentacle theology

tentacleTheology [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

TT: Kindly omit any and all embarrassing scepticism on your part, so that we might get to the heart of the matter without me having to waste time on perfectly logical explanations to perfectly logical situations.  
TT: Allow me to broach the sensitive issue of our conflicting cultures and begin with a robust Human Greeting I've succeeded in encapsulating in my far more complex tongue:  
TT: Hello.   
GA: Oh Good  
GA: I Was Wondering When One Of You Was Going To Attempt Trolling Me  
GA: Ive Been Hearing All About Your Highly Believable Antics From The Others And What Does This Total You At Now  
GA: Four  
GA: So Its Understandable That It Takes A While To Get To Each Of Us Individually Seeing As We Outnumber You Three To One  
GA: Personally I Was Hoping For The Enthusiastic Girl With The Green Font And The Wanton Emoticon Abuse  
GA: That Sort Of Upbeat Behaviour Makes It Easy To Overlook How Committed To This Fantasy Scenario You All Apparently Are  
GA: And No Dont Tell Me  
GA: I Already Know That Youre A Troll From A Universe So Very Far Away As To Be Considered Entirely Distinct From Our Own And That You Are Also Currently Residing In The Future So As To Better Orchestrate Our Perpetual Irritation At Your Hands  
GA: Really You Have All Of The Power Over Us And Our Sparing Human Intellects  
GA: Honestly I Cant Have Imagined The Endless Years Of Research And Dedication Your People Put Into Formulating This Plan Of Annoying A Dozen Supposed Alien Creatures On The Internet  
GA: And Wow Do Trolls Really Not Say Hello   
TT: Wonderful.  
TT: You ignore my initial request, fill my screen with baseless hearsay about me and my kind, and then finally do as I say to question my initial greeting.  
TT: And of course trolls say hello. It was an obvious joke, as emphasised by the Unnecessary Punctuation.  
TT: I'm well aware that human is only used as an adjective in your godawful science fiction movies by men in green suits.    
GA: Hmm  
GA: So Basically Youre Not Green  
GA: Thats What Youre Saying Here Right   
TT: Indeed.   
GA: Fascinating As Well As Fully Convincing  
GA: So What Do You Want   
TT: And finally, we get to the elusive point.  
TT: I want to help you.   
GA: What   
TT: Read it again. I'm certain you'll be able to come to a satisfying conclusion of your own accord.   
GA: Its Just That Youre Coming Off A Little Heavy Handed For Someone Who Only Wants To Help   
TT: Apologies. Perhaps next time I'll employ an exclamation mark to get my point across.   
GA: Yes Do That  
GA: But Sorry I Find It A Little Difficult To Believe That All Of This Meddling Has Been For The Sole Purpose Of Making Friends   
TT: I don't want to make friends.  
TT: I want to help.   
GA: Just How Do You Expect To Do That   
TT: You'll see. But to begin with, you need to trust me.  
TT: Or if you can't do that, you need to at least understand where I'm coming from.   
GA: Urgh  
GA: Its Not As Difficult For Us To Grasp As You Seem To Believe It Is  
GA: Youre Not In The Future So To Speak  
GA: But For Some Unknown Reason You Have Gained Access To The Timeline And Can View Our Happenings On Some Manner Of Sliding Scale And Choose The Most Viable And Effective Time To Harass Us   
TT: And by harass you mean...   
GA: Help  
GA: Yes With Your Vastly Superior Alien Intellect You Have Decided To Use This Fathomless Power And Or Technology In Order To Temporally Dislocate Yourself And Pester A Seemingly Random Group Of Teenage Friends  
GA: Its Not That Difficult A Concept To Grasp In Its Entirety  
GA: I Hope Your Alien Blood Pumping Organ Or Its Near Equivalent Is Swelling With New And Exciting Feelings Of Alien Pride    
TT: Actually, we call them hearts. Albeit mine is more of an expanding and collapsing bladder-based aquatic vascular system, but that's neither here nor there. I'm certainly not the rule, when it comes to troll biology.  
TT: And I'm not particularly impressed.  
TT: Not at this very moment, at least. I'll be honest with you.   
GA: Wow We Can Talk About The Heart Thing Later   
GA: But This Isnt The First Time Youve Spoken To Me Is It   
TT: It's the second.   
GA: Great  
GA: When Can I Expect This First Conversation To Take Place   
TT: You're thinking about this too hard. This is your first conversation; the one I'm referring to will, naturally, happen at some undetermined point in your future.  
TT: Though it was only a few minutes ago for me.   
GA: If This Is Your Idea Of Helping Me Then Id Hate To See What Layers Of Confusion And Potential Bullshit You Wrap The Minds Of Those You Dont Like In   
TT: Well,  
TT: You'll have to make the most of what I say, won't you?

tentacleTheology [TT] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

*

tentacleTheology [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

TT: Hello.  
TT: You're making good use of that chainsaw, now that you're finally in the medium.   
GA: What   
TT: What?   
GA: You Estimations Of My Current Activities Are Oddly Specific In Their Accuracy  
GA: So Accurate In Fact That I Am Forced To Have My Suspicions   
TT: Without a doubt, my favourite part about sliding timelines is having to engage in the same conversation any number of times.  
TT: Yes, I can see you. As I previously told you in the future, the viewport on my computer has been repaired. It took a while. We don't exactly have a computer specialist amongst us.   
GA: Thats Not Disconcerting At All   
TT: So you said.   
GA: Or Will Say   
TT: Now you're getting it.   
GA: Now I Am Getting Many Things  
GA: An Encroaching Sense Of Ill Ease Not Least Amongst Them  
GA: Because Lets Face It Its A Lot More Difficult To Be Sceptical Now That Im In The Medium  
GA: Not That Im Necessarily Taking Everything You Said At Face Value But Lets Accept It This Is All Somewhat Convincing  
GA: There Are Only So Many Imps I Can Saw Through Before Being Forced To Believe That There Is Some Degree Of Reality Present In The Situation At Hand   
TT: And how nicely you saw through them.   
GA: What About You   
TT: What about me?   
GA: You Dont Seem Like The Type To Use A Saw   
TT: Well observed. They don't fare particularly well in the water.  
TT: I use magic wands.   
GA: Magic Wands  
GA: What Do You Do Prod Imps In The Eyes With Them  
GA: That Is Possibly More Sadistic Than Terezis Apparent Need To Have All Of Hers Throttled To Death   
TT: What?  
TT: No, I use magic. Hence the term _magic_ wands.   
GA: But Is That Really A Thing  
GA: Magic  
GA: Hmm Although Doubting Magic Under These Rather Unique Circumstances Is Somewhat Foolish Considering All That Is Unfolding Around Me  
GA: After Seeing What Karkat Did To My House In The Way Of Expanding And Upgrading  
GA: Urgh Not Only Is His Sense Of Design Atrocious And His Spacial Awareness All But Lacking Im Fairly Certain Much Of The Construction Bent The Laws Of Physics  
GA: If It Did Not Eradicate Them Entirely   
GA: So In That Case Perhaps There Can Be Some Sort Of Explaining Done For The Presence Of Your Magic Wands And The Power I Am Lead To Believe They Produce   
TT: ...   
GA: Yes Okay I Have Successfully Talked Myself Into Believing That Your Wands Are In Fact Magical  
GA: Carry On With However You Intend To Assist Me This Time   
TT: Duck.   
GA: What  
GA: Oh  
GA: Oh  
GA: Not That Your Lukewarm Trolling Attempt Isnt Appreciated At Such A Time But As You Can Apparently See Im Somewhat Busy Here  
GA: Cant This Wait   
TT: It can, but I want to watch.   
GA: Um  
GA: It Is At Least A Dozen Times Weirder If You As You Put It Simply Watch In Silence While I Deal With The Hoards That Rile Against Me So  
GA: Considering That You Have Me At An Overwhelming Disadvantage Why Dont You Tell Me What You Look Like  
GA: I Have Quite An Eye For Fashion You Realise And I Am Certain Your Races Wardrobe Decisions Are Nothing If Not Dreary  
GA: So Why Dont You Give Me A General Idea Of Your Form And Perhaps I Too Can Help You   
TT: Because this is the perfect time for an anatomy lesson.   
GA: Exactly   
TT: You'll be pleased to know that we're bipedal, and in possession of the same number of limbs and digits as you.   
GA: Mindblowing   
TT: Hush. I require something to build upon.  
TT: We also have horns.   
GA: What Like An Antelope   
TT: No.  
TT: Like a troll.  
TT: Hm. I can see the curiosity written all over your face, and I'll save you from having to ask for a description while you finish off that particular imp.  
TT: They grow in various shades of orange, unique to each troll. Mine are simple: strong but thin, curving only slightly so as to ascend high above my head.   
GA: Wow That One Was Unusually Tough  
GA: But Thankfully While Getting Stronger None Of Them Appear To Be Getting Smarter  
GA: Thus Far You Have Made Yourself Out To Be A Human With Orange Horns   
TT: We're also grey.  
TT: And not privy to the wonderful variations in skin tones that your humans appear to be.   
GA: So Humans With Orange Horns And Liberally Applied Face Paint   
TT: That isn't to mention my fins, gills, scales or fangs, of course.   
GA: Er  
GA: Fins Gills Scales And Fangs   
TT: That's precisely what I just said, yes. If I ever require a professional echo in the future, I know where to come.    
GA: No Its Just That I Honestly Wasnt Expecting Something Of Such An Aquatic Nature   
TT: You weren't?  
TT: What about all the little hints as to my amphibious lifestyle that I've dropped thus far?   
GA: Okay  
GA: When You Put It Like That  
GA: I Guess Its Kind Of Obvious That Trolls Dwell In The Sea After All  
GA: Unlike The Trolls Of Human Folk Tales That Reside Under Bridges But Not Quite In The Specific Body Of Water Being Crossed By Said Construction   
TT: ...   
GA: What  
GA: Oh  
GA: Sorry If I Have Yet To Have Memorised Your Every Word  
GA: Its Not As If My Entire Understanding Of My Own Life Has Been Turned Upside Down In The Space Of A Day  
GA: But Its Coming Back To Me Now  
GA: How Youre Not Exactly The Rule As You Put It When It Comes To Troll Biology   
TT: Correct. The majority of trolls are land dwellers, though those highest on the spectrum are equipped to deal with the demands of the pressure created by the very depths of the ocean.  
TT: I'll tell you more about it in the future, which was actually half an hour ago.   
GA: Did I Find It As Fascinating As I Get The Feeling I Will   
TT: Absolutely  
TT: GA?    
GA: What Is It   
TT: You're bleeding.   
GA: Only A Little  
GA: Theres No Need To Be Concerned Seeing As I Didnt Even Notice It Until You Pointed It Out   
TT: I'm not concerned.  
TT: Well, other than by the fact that it's red.   
GA: Um  
GA: What Other Colour Would It Be   
TT: Jade.  
TT: Like your font.   
GA: Wow Really Thats Honestly Incredibly Bizarre  
GA: Is That A Thing That Trolls Do  
GA: Type In Their Blood Colour That Apparently Varies   
TT: Yes.    
GA: So Yours Is Purple Then  
GA: Does That Have Something To Do With The Spectrum You Made A Brief Reference To Before  
GA: And If So How Does That Place You In Society   
TT: It makes me royalty. Not that royalty means much of anything, when your race has been decimated to the meagre number of four.   
GA: Should I Bow Or Something   
TT: Only if you want to live.  
TT: ...  
TT: Your blood is really red?   
GA: Of Course It Is  
GA: I Dont Understand Why Youre So Shocked By This   
TT: ... well played, GA.  
TT: Well played.   
GA: What  
GA: What Did I Do

tentacleTheology [TT] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

*

tentacleTheology [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

TT: As you are no doubt aware, my fellow players have been communicating with yours for some time now. As such, I hope to completely forgo any pertinent desires you may be riddled with to sanctimoniously ignore any and all advice I choose to bestow upon you. By the end of this conversation, I hope to have at least secured your interest, if not respect, in what I have to impart upon you, because to be quite frank:  
TT: You're fucked without me.   
GA: Whatever Happened To The Days When We Could Start A Conversation With A Simple Hello As Opposed To A Hostile Alien Overture Of Thinly Veiled Threats   
TT: If such a time ever existed, it's likely to reside in my imminent future.  
TT: But I'll keep that in mind   
GA: Wait  
GA: So This Is Your First Conversation With Me  
GA: Have I Finally Overtaken You On This Increasingly Confusing And If I Say So Myself Entirely Unnecessary Warped Timeline   
TT: As I said, it's likely.   
GA: Hmm This Means Youre In The Dark So To Speak Doesnt It   
TT: If you're referring to my viewport, then you're correct.   
GA: You Know Youre Handling This A Lot Better Than I Did  
GA: Being So Behind On Things That Is  
GA: For All You Know You And I Have Had Many Conversations And You Could Have Revealed All Manner Of Things About Yourself Like What The Colour Of Your Purple Blood Means   
TT: And what does it mean?   
GA: Other Than Apparent Troll Royalty I Cant Say For Certain Yet  
GA: Although You And By You I Mean Somewhat Future You Has Informed Me That Well Have An In Depth Conversation About It At Some Point In My Future Which Is Her Slash Your Past Though Not As Past As This You  
GA: Because I Doubt You Are Willing To Share Such Personal Details With Me Just Yet Considering This Is The First Time We Have Spoken  
GA: Or Perhaps You Actually Just Wish To Use Them To Exert Your Imagined Authority Over Me As If Alien Monarchies Are A Thing That Affect Humans Lives Especially Now That Im On My Own Planet  
GA: A Way To Secure My Understanding That Certainly Isnt Respect Perish The Thought As I Marvel At The Rank You Were Born Into  
GA: Even Though I Believe I Am Doing Somewhat Better With The You Who Is From Some Point In The Future In The Way Of Beginning To Kindle Some Sort Of Mutual Respect   
GA: It Really Is A Touching Tale Of Two Aliens Brought Together From The Early Attempts Of A Hostile Trolling Raid    
TT: I'm beginning to regret not picking the )(uman with the purple text.   
GA: Well Sure Why Wouldnt You Be Gravitated Towards Someone Who Appears To Be On A Similar End To The Spectrum As You Are   
TT: Indeed.  
TT: I'm certain there are a great deal of discrepancies between our blood and yours, but amongst my race, jade blood was considered especially rare. A great honour, actually.   
GA: Oh  
GA: Oh No  
GA: Its Exactly The Same With Us Humans   
TT: It is?   
GA: Yes Definitely  
GA: Sometimes I Dont Even Like Typing In This Colour Because I Feel That I Am Bragging And Raking In Scepticism In The Same Action   
TT: Interesting.   
GA: Can I Just Say  
GA: How Very Much Im Enjoying This Conversation  
GA: Because I Am  
GA: So Much   
TT: Be that as it may, we've business to attend to.   
TT: What stage are you currently at?   
GA: Hmm I Am Under The Impression That I Have To Stoke The Forge Somehow   
TT: That role was reserved for our space player, as well.  
TT: Perhaps I ought send her your way.    
GA: Oh Good More Trolls To Dole Out Advice In My General Direction At Inopportune Moments  
GA: Which One Is She   
TT: Jade.  
TT: You'll recognise her by her insistence on adding enthusiasm to absolutely everything she says, as well as reckless emoticon usage.    
GA: !   
TT: I'll send her your way shortly. As delightful as it is being out of sync with events, I need to find a more appropriate patch of time to communicate with you from. It seems I miscalculated.    
GA: Its Only Your First Attempt  
GA: Dont Beat Yourself Up About It This Time Business Must Be Tricky

tentacleTheology [TT] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

GA: Goodbye To You Too

*  
tentacleTheology [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

TT: Hello.  
TT: You'll be pleased to know, for given quantities of pleased, that we're very almost commutating with each other from the same point in time.    
GA: Are We Really  
GA: Wow Talking To One Another From The Same Temporal Sphere Feels Old Fashioned  
GA: Possibly The Most Old Fashioned Thing There Is  
GA: So When Exactly Will Our Conversations Match Up   
TT: It won't be long from now. If you consider that this is your fourth and my fifth.   
GA: So  
GA: One Equals Two  
GA: Two Equals Four  
GA: Three Equals One  
GA: Four Equals Five  
GA: Then Surely  
GA: Hmmmm   
TT: Yes, yes.   
TT: 1=2, 2=4, 3=1, 4=5, 5=3, meaning that 6=6.   
GA: It Might Be A Foolish Thing To Say  
GA: But Im Sort Of Looking Forward To That Sixth Conversation Purely Because It Will Put Us On The Same Level  
GA: In The Sense Of Time That Is  
GA: Oh Shit I Just Realised That This Means You Can See Me Again Doesnt It  
GA: Id Almost Managed To Forget How Unnerving And Needlessly Intrusive That Was   
TT: I can.  
TT: ...  
TT: Would you stop that?  
TT: Immediately.  
TT: Look, you currently have a frog atop your head. Fixing your hair at this point isn't going to help either one of us.   
GA: You Might Say That But I Feel A Lot More Comfortable Now    
TT: Fine. Feel free to shake the swamp water out of your hair at any time you please.  
TT: But as for our sixth conversation, I'm afraid I can't share the sentiment.   
GA: Oh  
GA: How Disappointing  
GA: Though Not Entirely Unexpected At All   
TT: It isn't like that. There's something I need to talk to you about, regarding it.   
GA: If It Isnt Like That Then What Is It Like   
TT: It's our sixth and final conversation. After that, something happens.    
GA: Something  
GA: That Isnt At All Frustratingly Vague And Amplifying The Apprehension I Now Feel  
GA: Something Like What   
TT: I can't say. If I knew, I would've ensured it was dealt with already. It's simply that after a certain point on my timeline, I can't see you anymore. Everything goes black.   
GA: I  
GA: Oh  
GA: Well Does That Mean That I  
GA: You Know  
GA: Kick The Bucket   
TT: ...  
TT: Excuse me?    
GA: Am I You Know  
GA: Dearly Departed Etc   
TT: That's vastly different from what you said the first time, but I think I'd much rather answer that.  
TT: No, you aren't dead. If you were dead, I'd be able to see your corpse. Or what's left of it. This is something different.   
GA: Hmm Okay That Is Almost More Unsettling Than Knowing I Am Soon To Be No Longer  
GA: How Are You Going To Help Me Through This Little Disparity Between Being Able To View Me Whenever You Like And The Apparent Darkness That Takes Hold   
TT: I'm not certain I can. Which frustrates me as much as it does you.  
TT: I suppose I just wanted to say...   
GA: What  
GA: What Did You Want To Say   
TT: Hush. Don't rush me.   
GA: Fine Take Your Time   
TT: ... be careful.   
GA: Oh  
GA: Dont Worry That Is Definitely A Thing I Was Planning On Doing   
TT: Good.  
TT: One more thing.  
TT: With regards to a previous conversation, which I'm aware you've yet to have, I just wanted to say that I came off a little heavy-handed. I may have given the wrong impression. I don't merely strive for equality so that all can be duly punished and better controlled; I do so because I believe everyone deserves the same chance, for better or for worse.   
GA: I Have Absolutely No Idea Of What Youre Talking About   
TT: You will.

tentacleTheology [TT] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

*

tentacleTheology [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

TT: Hello.  
TT: The top of your head is exceedingly flat. It's almost remarkable in its simplicity.   
GA: Thats Not Disconcerting At All  
GA: And That Isnt A Strange Conversation Opener Either  
GA: Actually Thinking Back To The Conversations Ive Had Recently Thats Actually True  
GA: So I Am to Summarise From This That I Am Once Again Ahead Of You In This Frivolous Time Stream We Both Drift Down At The Mercy Of Inconsistent Currents And That You Have Recently Turned On Your Viewport    
TT: Ah. You already know about it. Good, that saves me from explaining the technicalities of it all.  
TT: Are you sclera supposed to be that clear? They almost look white.    
GA: That Could Possibly Be Because They Are White   
GA: Really You Could Sit There And Pick Apart My Appearance All Day But Im Sure Youd Get Bored Of Discussing Xenoanatomy Before I Would  
GA: Also Thats A Word I Invented Just Now For The Unique Phenomenon Thats Now Unfolding  
GA: Oh No Actually Wait  
GA: While Were On This Subject I Would Expect That This Is The Part Where You Tell Me More About Yourself  
GA: Spectrums Royal Blood Fins And Fangs And So On  
GA: I Already Know About Your Orange Horns And Grey Skin So Maybe You Could Just Explain This Whole Sea Dweller Land Dweller Thing   
TT: Well.  
TT: Being as I am, able to observe you, I suppose I can indulge your curiosity.  
TT: There are two main classes of troll: those who live in the sea, and those who reside on land. We have a great number of things in common, horns and skin colour included, though sea dwellers are obviously equipped in different ways.  
TT: We categorise the apparent worth of our blood in a hemospectrum. I'm certain humans have a similar means of keeping social order.   
GA: Of Course   
TT: In our case, the warmer blooded trolls, reds, yellows and browns, and so on, are at the bottom, and it goes all the way around to purple, which resides at the top. Being as high up as I am, I am the current heiress to the throne.   
GA: The Throne  
GA: So You Really Are Some Sort Of Big Deal  
GA: And You Are Considered Fit To Exert Your Rule Simply Because Of The Colour Of Your Blood   
TT: Indeed. Having always known what I was destined for, who better to see over the swarms of lower ranking trolls than me? I am thoroughly acquainted with how to maintain order.   
GA: Order Through Equality   
TT: That's the idea, yes.   
GA: Only Its Not Really Equality If Youre On The Top Is It   
TT: Somebody needs to keep a grasp on power in order to keep the masses in line.    
GA: Or Oppressed   
TT: Now you're arguing semantics.   
GA: I Dont Think You Really Mean This   
TT: I do.   
GA: No  
GA: I Really Know That You Dont Genuinely Want To Come Off Like This  
GA: Its Just Urrrgh  
GA: Youre Still Trying To Intimidate Us So  
GA: If You Dont Mind I Have Other Matters To Attend To   
TT: If you must.

garmentAmeliorator [GA] ceased pestering tentacleTheology [TT]

*

tentacleTheology [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

TT: This is it, Kanaya.   
GA: Were Finally Matching Up  
GA: And Wow Youre Actually Using My Name Now   
TT: I am. Jade told me.   
GA: Yes Because She Actually Thought To Ask   
TT: I thought you would've been a Derse dreamer, Kanaya.   
GA: I  
GA: What   
TT: Jade says you dream of Prospit, just as she does. But I thought...  
TT: Never mind. I don't know what I thought or why. Or why I was under the impression that it mattered. Dreams are just dreams.   
GA: Except For When Youre Murdered In Them I Guess  
GA: And I Assume That This Makes You A Derse Dreamer Right   
TT: That's right.  
TT: I need to tell you something.   
GA: Well Youve Always Been The Bearer Of Good News Up Until This Point So Sure  
GA: Go Ahead   
TT: I realised why things go black.  
TT: It isn't you blacking out. You aren't becoming a void in the timeline.   
TT: I can't see what happens because I'm the one who'll have gone dark at that point in time. I've effectively been blinded by the actions of my future self, which will soon be my actions.   
GA: Um  
GA: What The Fuck Are You Going To Do   
TT: I have a mission to complete.   
GA: From Who  
GA: Whos Making You Do Whatever It Is Youre Going To Do   
TT: The Gods of the Furthest Ring   
GA: Okay That Is At Least Twelve Separate Levels Of Shithive Maggots  
GA: You Know This Is Sounding Exactly Like A Suicide Mission   
TT: Perhaps.  
TT: But it's vital.   
GA: Vital For What Exactly  
GA: What Could Be So Very Vital That You Have To Throw Yourself Into A Void To Obtain It   
TT: It's the only way for you to survive your session. And after that,  
TT: Perhaps we'll get to meet.    
GA: Jesus  
GA: We Can Only Meet If Youre Alive You Realise   
TT: I know that.   
TT: Hmm.   
TT: We're not far from things going black.   
GA: What  
GA: No  
GA: Wait Just One Moment  
GA: The Amount Of Seemingly Impossibly Things I Have Accomplished In The Last Twelve Hours Alone Is Utterly Absurd So I Am Certain There Is Some Way To Work Around These Gods And Their Nefarious Plans For You  
GA: You Must Be Privy To The Darkness For Some Reason   
GA: I Mean We Must Be Able To Prevent It In Some Way If We Put Our Heads Together And Take Care With Your Horns   
TT: I'm afraid not.  
TT: And for the record?  
TT: My name is Rose Lalonde.

tentacleTheology [TT] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]


	14. gratuitous suitporn

     The first signing the publishing company arranges for her is six months after _Complacency of the Learned_ is first released. By then, she has garnered enough attention to warrant one of the bigger book stores in the city being closed down for the event, and from what Rose has heard from half a dozen sources, some of the more dedicated fans have been camped out overnight.

     Try as she might to downplay the importance of the event, there's no being nonchalant about things when Kanaya is involved. She's been brimming with enough excitement for the two of them over the last few weeks, and Rose can't help but reflect some of that. She's earned this. Kanaya, in order to make a real show of the signing, has been left in charge of all wardrobe decisions, and once again, Rose finds that she can't fault her fashion choices in any way.

     She's made suits for the both of them, based on the book's cover. For Rose's part, she's lacking in Calmasis's trademark green; instead, the suit and shirt alike are both the colour of coal, a matte black that's only broken up by a dark lavender waistcoat and bow tie. Kanaya's reserved the green shades for herself, and has opted for a black silk tie. 

     Rose sits with Kanaya at her side throughout the exhilarating, gruelling event, from eleven in the morning right up until five. Her wrist aches by midday, and Rose is simply glad that none of her fans expect her to smile too much, given the content of her work and the public façade she's put on thus far. Many of her fans recognise Kanaya, by virtue of her being Rose's partner, and a few even recognise her based on her own merits. Kanaya is always happy to explain that, yes, she did design their outfits herself, but her being there doesn't seem to be enough of a deterrent for some people.

     Rose is very much aware of the fact that gushing fans with fumbled confessions are part of this newfangled deal that comes with fame, but she can't help but smile to herself every time she sees Kanaya's brow left out of the corner of her eye.

     Once they're done for the day, having stayed half an hour longer than scheduled to see to some of the stragglers, the people that tell her they didn't imagine it would be quite this busy, they're driven back to their hotel. The security that stood behind Rose the entire time she was scrawling across book pages accompany them up to their room, and Kanaya thanks them for the escort, but seeing as they were fine throughout the signing, she thinks they'll be able to handle things from here on out.

     It's a nice hotel. A _really_ nice hotel. Rose has had money for much of her life, but she never would've picked out something quite this luxurious for herself. It's completely over the top, but somehow manages not to be too gaudy, and the bed in the centre of the suite is bigger than most people's bedrooms.

     It's a shame that they don't make it that far.

     As soon as the door closes behind them, Rose has her arms draped across Kanaya's shoulders, pulling her closer as she leans back against it. Kanaya laughs in a way that says she thinks Rose is as terrible as she is wonderful, and then slips her hands beneath the lapels of the jacket, pressing her fingers to the small expanse of shirt where the waistcoat ends but the trousers haven't quite yet begun. 

     “You did exceedingly well today, Rose,” Kanaya murmurs with a soft, prideful smile. She presses her forehead to Rose's, and kisses her lightly. “Your fans are completely enamoured with you.”

     “My fans are completely enamoured with my _book_ , and have created an idealised depiction of me in their minds, which they assume to be nothing if not fully confirmed, having been in my presence for almost an entire minute,” Rose corrects her, kissing back.

     They kiss slowly, albeit in a way that does nothing to suggest there's any sort of laziness in the action, but it doesn't take Rose long to realise that she's _exhausted_. She doesn't want to _do_ anything. Bundling her fingers in Kanaya's hair, she breaks her mouth away, guiding her down towards her throat. Kanaya doesn't need to be told twice; exhaling heavily, she presses her mouth to her pulse point, teeth raking across soft skin, as if she needs to scrape at the surface, before letting her tongue wander out.

     Rose lets out a sigh, tilting her head back. That's much better. She closes her eyes, taking in the feel of the fabric against her skin. Kanaya really doesn't spare any expense, and there's something almost delicate in the way she's moving her hands now, not wanting to risk creasing the shirt or suit. Rose grins, bucking her hips unexpectedly, causing Kanaya's grasp to tighten at her waist. She feels a frustrated little growl rumble against the hollow of her throat, and presses herself close to Kanaya, daring her to move more. Kanaya only retaliates by pushing her own hips forward, pinning Rose completely to the door, and Rose tightens her grasp on her hair, letting her know that she should stay right where she is.

     Until the pressure Kanaya's putting on her gets a little tiring and she's already had her way with most of her throat, that is. There's really far too much in the way of clothing between them, and Rose places a hand on Kanaya's shoulder, trailing it down to her chest, fingers wrapping around her tie. She opens her eyes back up as she pulls on it, so she can watch the way Kanaya's forced away from her throat, eyes locked on hers in confusion. Rose tilts her head to the side, yanks on the tie again, and with lips ever so slightly parted, Kanaya moves slowly, down onto one knee, and then the other.

     Rose can imagine what's going through Kanaya's mind right now, and doesn't doubt that much of it revolves around conflict; because surely she doesn't want to be knelt down like that when it leaves the knees of her suit trousers at the mercy of the carpeted floor, even though she's more than eager to fulfil her role. But Rose doesn't _care_ what becomes of their suits or how much Kanaya is fretting, because right now, she's on top of the world. Hundreds upon hundreds of people came out to see her today, because of her work, and she's been hearing nothing but adoration and praise from a sea of strangers who believe that reading her work grants them some sort of intimate familiarity with her.

     Of course, Kanaya's the only one granted such a thing, and she takes full advantage of this. Her thumbs press to the waistband of Rose's trousers as she works quickly to untuck her shirt, and deft fingers quickly have the bottom two buttons and one of the waistcoat's undone. She doesn't seem willing to take the time to undo the rest of them, and just pulls open her shirt at the bottom, pressing her hungry mouth to Rose's stomach. Rose lets out a groan of appreciation, shoulders rolling back, and wonders if Kanaya is irrationally _jealous_. Rose would never consider another, no matter how much they praised her work and would blindly do whatever she behests, and Kanaya knows this well; but there is a certain sort of ferocity in the haste with which she runs her lips and tongue across the contours of Rose's stomach, palms pressing hard against her hipbones. 

     If Kanaya's trying to prove something to her, then it's certainly working. With a grin, Rose decides that she can be moved to generosity, and steps out of one of her shoes, foot sliding up Kanaya's thigh. She doesn't stop until ball of her foot is pressed between Kanaya's legs, working through stiff fabric, and maybe she was being a little selfish, after all. As soon as Kanaya's at the mercy of the pressure, she's whimpering against her skin, doing all she can to get Rose's trousers unbuttoned as quickly as she can. 

     But then something else catches Kanaya's attention, and she takes hold of one of Rose's hands, lips pressing to the heel of her palm.

     “You did a great deal of writing today,” Kanaya murmurs softly, lips grazing up her fingertips. “Your hand must ache.”

     “It does,” Rose agrees breathlessly as Kanaya kisses the tip of each finger, and then bites them all in turn, from top to bottom, dragging her teeth all the way back up.

     With her hands back on Kanaya's shoulders, her nails rake against the shoulders of her jacket, and she keeps Kanaya where she is, for just a moment. Just for long enough to _really_ work her up. And then, selfless being that she is, she relinquishes her hold on Kanaya, and allows her pull her trousers and underwear down in one fell swoop. She steps out of them with one foot, hooks a leg over Kanaya's shoulder, but doesn't get to kick them off completely. Her head thuds back against the door as Kanaya presses her mouth between her legs, but she doesn't feel it. There's just the warmth that spreads from Kanaya's tongue, her heartbeat caught between her legs, and Rose groans loudly, spectacularly failing to give a shit if anyone happens to be passing in the corridor.

     Her knee bends as the sudden rush of blistering sensations drains the last of her energy right out of her body, but Kanaya's hands are splayed against her hips, keeping in place. Rose opens her eyes, blinks away the sparks, and looks down at Kanaya as she works. There's something wonderfully decadent in the way her leg drapes over Kanaya's shoulder, and Rose whimpers and rolls her hips towards Kanaya's mouth, fingers tangling tightly in her hair. 

     Pushing her shoulders back and tilting her head slightly to the side, Kanaya begins doing her best to shrug off her jacket. It's hardly the smoothest of motions, because Kanaya doesn't stop working her mouth against Rose for half a second, and Rose can't bring herself to move her leg from over her should. But with a grunt, hands momentarily letting go of Rose's hips, Kanaya shrugs the jacket off, dropping it unceremoniously behind her. Rose smiles smugly – as smugly as she can in that position, pinned to the door as she is, Kanaya working hard on her knees – at the sight, because this is _Kanaya_. She doesn't just toss clothing every which way. Especially not something she's taken so much care to put together piece by piece. Kanaya must be just as into this as she is.

     Rose looks down at her, at the way her perfect green shirt creases at the shoulders, waistcoat tight around her, and then grits her teeth, hitting her head harder against the door, this time.

     Alright. Perhaps Kanaya isn't quite as far gone as she is, but there's plenty of time before checkout tomorrow to fix that.


	15. beginning of the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of a series, [found here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/14516).

     The first week of the semester flies by, considering how much you've already done. Your timetable is sorted, all of your belongings are unpacked, making your tiny, en-suite room feel as much like home as it's ever likely to. You've signed up for a handful of societies, all of which you're going to treat with the seriousness and severity they deserve, the creative writing one especially, and though you're supposed to be getting into the swing of classes, you've already managed to land yourself a job working sixteen hours a week on one of the campus' on-site coffee shops.

     All in all, you think you've earned the opportunity to unwind of a Friday evening. How you've ended up in a nightclub, however, is beyond you. While it isn't your scene, you're not entirely opposed to the notion; you just didn't intend to be here, or out this late. All of the psychology students decided to go out for a meal, which you endured in the name of bonding (and not having to cook for yourself), and it seemed like a few other departments had the same idea. It's a small city, and there are only so many restaurants to hide away in. Before you knew it, you'd amassed a sizeable group, and half a dozen people simultaneously had the bright idea of not ending the evening with dessert. 

     And so there you are at some ridiculous hour in what proclaims to be the city's biggest club, Rhino Rhino. You're not exactly dressed for it, thought you look passable, having made an effort for dinner. You've never been one to care about that sort of thing, anyway. You're comfortable as you are, certain that any skittish behaviour on your part would single you out as not belonging long before your clothing did, and most of the people you've come with are in the same boat.

     While you've found the idea of coming out tolerable enough, you're not about to start dancing. You lean against the bar, ordering yourself whatever your mother wouldn't; something decadent, something that isn't wrapped in layers upon layers of pretentious bullshit to hide the fact that it's there purely to get pissed on. You end up going for a double vodka and Red Bull. It tastes like something your dearly departed Jaspers would've left in a puddle on your oak wood flooring.

     The music's pounding out so loudly that you swear your brain's vibrating, so there's not much to do but watch people. And that suits you just fine, because you've had enough of people trying to mask who they really are, floundering over their words as they desperately try to make a good first impression. There are only so many times you can talk about where you came from and what you're studying and why, and whenever anyone you now vaguely recognise comes your way, you exchange cursory smiles, and let it be known that you're more than happy standing there, drink in hand.

     You're on your third drink when someone in particular catches your attention for more than a few seconds. You've been glancing across the sea of bodies under the influence of alcohol, heady on the knowledge that they're no longer their parents' responsibility, watching as they place too much confidence in their footwork and attempt to grind against one another in frankly embarrassing ways; the girl next to you at the bar is the first person who hasn't seemed to embody a horrible, over-exaggerated student cliché. 

     Or you're just very, very drunk and the eye patch across her left eye has garnered your attention.

     When she catches you look her way (or staring, rather. You must be staring by now) she scowls, but doesn't seem to take any real offence. From your initial assessment, you discern that she's somewhere between perpetually pissed off and used to it drawing unwanted attention by now. You wonder if she's wearing it for show, if it's some sort of trend, but quickly retract your curiosity; she doesn't look as if she's out to get attention by means of being quirky.

     “Hey,” you say, leaning close to fight off the sound of the music, because you've been looking at her a tad too long not to.

     She gives you a slight, uninterested nod, and then knocks back the two shots she's just ordered without even cringing.

     “Rose Lalonde,” you add on, when she glances back your way. She leans in, shouts what you assume is a _What?_ , and you repeat yourself. Leaning back, she scrunches up her face and shrugs. The music really is deafening. You introduce yourself for a third time.

     “Lalonde?” she says, mouth slanted to the side, questioning. She's at least caught onto the last part, and so you nod, deciding that will do. “Vriska Serket.”

     Somehow, you manage to latch on to the whole of her name. She drums her fingers awkwardly against the bar, glances at the pulsing mess of students who are going to be full of regrets in the morning, and then leans back in to ask if you want a drink. You're buzzing a little yourself, and it's difficult to tell if she's asking you because she doesn't know how else to make conversation and feels awkward, or if there's more to it. 

     You take her up on her offer, and she doesn't ask you what you want. She holds up four fingers to the barmaid, orders another round of those bright blue shots, and slides two over to you. Someone bumps against your shoulder and you end up standing pressed up against her side, but that's alright; it's to be expected from this sort of space. She rolls her eye as her laughter is drowned out, and then lifts up a shot glass in a silent _cheers_ , before you both down them at the same time.

     Over the following half an hour, you end up paying for the next few rounds, because Vriska pulls her pockets inside-out to demonstrate that she's out of cash, initially having the good grace to turn down the second round you go to order. Her resistance lasts for all of a few seconds, and you drink with her, watching the masses before you, occasionally elbowing each other in the sides when there's something particularly disastrous worth pointing out.

     At some point, she disappears. You've no idea whether she's gone to the toilet, home, or to dance, because it takes you a moment to realise that you're standing alone. You blink heavily, alcohol catching up with you, and then rummage around your pockets, making sure you've enough cash for a taxi home. Someone from your course comes up, places both of his hands on your shoulders and says something about joining him on the dance-floor, but you politely decline, deciding that it's time you got yourself home.

     Usually, you'd be much more cautious about leaving a strange place in the dead of night alone, not yet having a real feel for the area, but there's too much alcohol in your system to allow for hesitation. You make your way briskly out of the club, walking in what you assume to be a straight line, ears ringing as the music fades away, allowing you to hear your own thoughts again.

     It's cold out. Well, you can tell it's cold out, but you can't really _feel_ it. From the corner of your eye, you can see people littered around, and so you keep your gaze fixed forward, taking a direct path towards the taxis. You're about to cross the road when someone taps you on the shoulder, and you take half a second too long to react.

     You breathe a chilly sigh of relief when you realise that it's only Vriska.

     “Hey,” she says, like she wasn't sure whether she should approach you or not. “Where are you going? I said I was going to be right back. I only came out for a smoke!”

     Oh. You furrow your brow, glancing down to the cigarette in her hand, as if to double-check that she's telling the truth. It's ringing faint bells; perhaps you were supposed to wait for her, after all.

     “I apologise,” you reply, and you stop clutching at your bag, where you'd been about to pull out your wallet to ensure that it really was still there. “I found myself alone at the bar, and—”

     She pokes a finger against your chest, laughing, and you find yourself cut off. You'd hate to think that you almost lose your balance that easily, but you do have to take an unnecessarily wide step backwards. 

     “Man, you're totally wasted,” she says, unspeakably pleased by this. You've no doubt that she's in the same position, if not worse off. Rolling her shoulders back, Vriska raises her eyebrow at you, and then takes a few steps to the side, leaning against the wall. You opt not to leave, because if she was expecting you to wait for her in the club, she's not going to mind hanging outside with you.

     “I assume you're not taken with the idea of dancing,” you say, stepping towards her. You cover one of her hands with your own, prying the cigarette from her grasp. She lets go of it without much reluctance, and then tilts her head back, shaking out her messy blonde hair.

     “You smoke?” she asks, as if she knows enough about you to be surprised by this. You nod, cigarette between your lips, even if it isn't strictly true. You've had a grand total of three in your life, this one included, and you've been incredibly drunk each and every time. But she doesn't need to know that. “And I like dancing! It's just that this place is a bit— _you know_.”

     She emphasises the _you know_ and looks at you for a little too long for you not to know exactly what she's getting at. You just smile at her in a way you're certain is condescending, and keep hold of her cigarette, even when she reaches out for it.

     “Don't be a bitch, Lalonde. Give it back,” she says, teeth grit, though she doesn't manage to slur out any real anger. She swipes for it again, and you don't relent until she kicks herself off the wall, stepping closer to you.

     “Why would I know?” you ask smugly as she starts smoking again, cigarette tip glowing so bright that her lungs must be burning. 

     At that she grins like she's not going to let you fuck her around, not unless she gets to snap back, anyway, and takes another step towards you. You wonder, after a moment of staring up at her (she's very tall, even though you're used to most people being taller than you are), when you switched positions with her. There you are, backed up against the wall, though you don't necessarily feel that she has you at a disadvantage. 

     “Look at you,” she says, and then reaches out, tugging the hem of your plaid shirt. “Total dyke.”

     You frown, batting her hand away. Grinning still, like she's uncovered some grave secret, she takes a last drag from her cigarette, flicks it away, and then leans forward, both hands pressing to the wall, either side of your head. It wouldn't be difficult to duck out from under her arms and head back towards the taxis, and you've no doubt that she'd let you make your escape, which is probably why you stand your ground.

     “You're being presumptuous. One piece of clothing can't speak for an entire lifestyle,” you say, and she gives you the most incredulous look, before blowing smoke into your face.

     That much you weren't expecting. You set your jaw, face scrunching up because it's utterly disgusting, and grab at her shoulders, as if you're about to push her away. Once you've got a hold of her, though, your justified annoyance with her fizzles out, loses some of its edge, and god help you, you're pulling her closer.

     “Where do you live?” she asks, and you answer her, because it's all too easy. Whatever unfolds after this, she's not going to kick up a fuss; hell, she'll probably have forgotten your name by this time tomorrow.

     “Woodworth Student Centre,” you say, lips almost, _almost_ brushing against hers as you speak. She just hums from the back of her throat, and you decide that fuck it, you're going to let her kiss you. And so she does, not taking care to go about things slowly, hands still pressed flat to the wall either side of you. You press your thumbs to the line of her jaw, making certain that she knows you're going to be the one guiding this, and for a brief moment, it's like all of the alcohol's been washed clean out of you.

     Until you taste the shots you were doing on the tip of her tongue, and then you remember just how drunk you really are all over again.

     “Come on,” she says, one hand at your hip, tugging, “My place is closer. We can walk.” 

     You push her off you before beginning to walk in the vague direction she gestured in, but her arms are draped loosely around your waist in a matter of moments, lips pressing against the line of your jaw. You go to protest, to remind her that this is only going to stall the both of you from getting where you want to be, but she presses her mouth to yours every time you try to speak.

     Best to roll with the punches, really. You'll get to unwind sooner or later, if frustration doesn't get the better of you first.


	16. spidertrolls

     The day she comes home in a foul mood is, perhaps, better than any other.

     Vriska waits for her in her block, fidgeting in one corner, when there's nothing more she can do up on deck. Mindfang's crew keep their hands off her because of a certain striking resemblance, and do as she says because their minds are all soft and mushy, as malleable as any lowblood she's ever met on land; but exerting her power over a long period of time is exhausting. She's never _officially_ been given the go ahead to slip into Mindfang's block whenever the mood takes her, but she's been called upon enough times, day and night alike, to assume that it'll be alright.

     But when Mindfang finally does return after a three-day excursion to the closest harbour town, Vriska realises that it's never safe to assume anything, when it comes to Mindfang. 

     She stands as the door swings open, forcefully dragged out of her daydreaming, jumping as if she's been caught in the process of doing more than picking at the floorboards with her metal nails. She parts her lips to say _Hey_ or _Welcome back_ or something equally as pointless, but Mindfang's fingers tangle in the collar of shirt, and the words come out as “Oof, _fuck_ —!” as she's pushed against the closest wall. 

     Her head doesn't hit the panelling but the ship rocks nonetheless, and the air's knocked clean out of Vriska's lungs with so much force that she believes herself to hold more responsibility for the swaying than the sea does. She sneers, smart enough to know that Mindfang is pissed about something beyond finding an uninvited guest in her quarters, but trying to meet her gaze doesn't tell Vriska anything more. Mindfang's one eye flickers away from her own, expression blank, like she's staring right though Vriska and the ship itself, and into a recent memory. 

     Vriska reaches up, grabbing at Mindfang's shoulders, but Mindfang rolls them forward so sharply that Vriska decides to let go, fond of remaining in one piece. She sees the glint of Mindfang's fangs catching the light from the single lamp on the corner table, hears her breathe louder than usual, but it's hard to make out anything else when her own heart is pounding away, grappling at the inside of her ribcage and thundering all around.

     There's a rustle of fabric, and Vriska only realises she's in the process of losing her pants once she feels them come loose at the waist. In any other situation, she'd roll her eyes and mock Mindfang for being so impatient, all through heavy breaths, and Mindfang would bite down on her neck and say that she wouldn't be moved to such haste if Vriska wasn't so absurdly needy, now would she?; now, Vriska purses her teeth together, knowing that Mindfang doesn't need any more spurring on.

     When she reaches for the buttons of Mindfang's shirt, she's met with a cold, flat, “—stop.” She does as she's told, but Mindfang tightens her grip on her collar regardless, knuckles digging in against her chest, ensuring that every link in her spine is pressed to the wall.

     Vriska's about to spit out a _fuck you_ , because Mindfang likes it when she bares her teeth and lets every little thing get to her, but then there's a gloved hand down the front of her pants, and all she can force out is, “Give me some _warning_ next time, god...” 

     Even as she says it, she's debating over how long she should leave it before starting to rock herself up against Mindfang's fingers, trying to calculate just how much of an effort it would be to wrap her legs around her hips. Mindfang finally lets go of her collar, and Vriska takes a deep breath, though she was nowhere near close enough to choking to to demand such dramatics.

     “Shhhhhhhh.” Mindfang tries to hush her, the pad of her thumb pressing just _so_ as two fingers slide inside of Vriska. She uses her now-free hand to trace the tangled tips of Vriska's hair, leaning in, almost close enough to kiss. 

     Vriska feels her knees buckle, does her best to stay firmly on her feet. She doesn't dare press her mouth to Mindfang's, and instead closes her eyes, focusing on the way Mindfang's breath ghosts across her slightly parted lips, as if it's ever going to be enough to distract her from what Mindfang's doing with her fingers, _god_ , fuck her.

     “... your fault,” Vriska mumbles, when it comes to pass that she can't keep quiet. It's one of the bigger mistakes she's made today, because talking back only results in Mindfang tugging on her hair, and grumbling out “—goddammit, stop pretending that I'm Redglare!” doesn't do much to help her case.

     Mindfang's fist is at her collar again, her hand quickly liberated from between her legs, and Vriska is _whining_ in a painful, needy sort of way, even as Mindfang drags her across the block. She's still mourning the loss of Mindfang's fingers, the likes of which have been replaced with a horribly neglected pounding, when she's thrown against the opposite wall, forehead smacking against the wood. _Fuck_. At least she knows what Mindfang's so pissed off about this time. Another handful of days wasted on shore, lost to unsuccessful black advances.

     Vriska places her palms flat against the wall, tries pushing herself off, but then Mindfang's pressed to her back, skirts and petticoats and and that damn heavy jacket making everything unbearably hot. There's sweat on Vriska's brow, and she pushes her forehead harder against the wood when Mindfang's hands move up and under her shirt; she twists on the spot, and the tips of her horns make the wall splinter all over.

     “... sorry,” Vriska grumbles, because while Mindfang's hands against her chest are making her pulse jump and spike, even through the gloves, they need to be _elsewhere_ , right now. She bucks her hips back against Mindfang's, and adds for good measure, “Sorry, _sorry_.”

     That seems to do the trick. She swears she hears Mindfang laugh, and feels her heavy breath brush against the back of her neck, cool in contrast to everything else that's going on around her. Vriska berates herself for whining when Mindfang's fingers drift away from her nipples, because she _asked_ for this, but that whine becomes a moan when the heel of Mindfang's palm presses firmly between her legs.

     Mindfang's other hand finds a place to rest, too: she hooks her fingers around Vriska's jaw, fingertips finding her lips in a matter of moments. Vriska supposes that it ruins the immersion if she talks too much, if Redglare really is on Mindfang's mind, but she's gasping and panting too much by this point, and doesn't really know of any way to react other than by licking at her fingers. Mindfang shifts, presumably to watch, but Vriska's got her eyes closed again, well aware of her own limits. There's only so much she can take at once.

     The leather of Mindfang's glove brushes against her dry lips, and then she's opening Vriska's mouth all the more, pushing two fingers in between her teeth.

     “ _Mmph_ ,” Vriska says, muffled by the fingers, meaning it to either be Mindfang's name, a misplaced moan, or another attempt at seeming in control in any way. Her own nails rake ruts in the wall, and her kneecaps _thud_ against the wood as she sinks forward, legs spreading further apart, sending another little shock right through her.

     “Careful,” Mindfang says in a voice that's far too friendly to be anything but a threat, “These gloves cost more than every scrap of fabric on the entire crew's backs. Don't tear them.”

     Vriska grumbles something else as Mindfang prods at her tongue, and quickly realises just how goddamn difficult it is not to tear the gloves to shreds. Mindfang's in no mood to take her time, and the whole of Vriska's body is aching to be pushed past the point of comfort; there's a tenseness in her jaw, and all she wants to do is grit her teeth together and fall apart. She scrapes them across Mindfang's fingers, knowing that while the fabric is tough her fangs are sharper, and does everything she can to hold onto a sliver of self-control as Mindfang completely ruins her. 

     Mindfang is kind enough to take half a step back as Vriska rides it out, but doesn't think to remove her fingers from her mouth or otherwise until a moment later. Vriska slumps forward, hitting the wall with her forehead and horns of her own accord this time, and murmurs, throat completely dry, “Welcome back.”


	17. Control

     The frame of the bed creaks every time you tug the chains against the slats in the headboard, and you jerk your head to the side, huffing through fabric as she pulls your shirt over your head. She doesn't get far; you try telling her that she should've taken it off _before_ cuffing your wrists, but she just presses her fingers to your lips to shut you up, and laughs in delight when you bite down on them. 

     So there you are, arms stretched above your head, shirt bundled around your wrists, with Terezi's bony hips pressed down against your own. You keep telling her that it's hot, too hot to be comfortable, but she refuses to open the window. The best she'll do for you is tugging your shirt up but not all the way off, because, apparently, you can't be trusted to have the cuffs undone for even a split second. You bite her fingers harder, and she lets out a deep chuckle, grabbing hold of your jaw. She's everywhere all at once, and you, you're not going anywhere.

     “I didn't think you'd be so slow about things, Pyrope! Since when did you ever hold back?” you say, like there's any chance of being able to goad her into anything. Your temples are already pounding from the way you grind your teeth together, because there's so much she _could_ do, and it only serves to remind you of how she's luxuriating in taking her time. “Thought you were going to fuck me!”

     “You make it sound like such a privilege!” she says, one finger tracing all the way down from between your collarbone to the waistband of your boxers. You try not to react, but you shudder, stomach sticking to your spine. As in control as she always sounds, there's something hidden deep in her tone; you know she likes having you bound like this as much as she likes anything you ever do to her, because she has you there for fucking _hours_ , when she wants to.

     “Of course it's a goddamn privilege. I don't let just anyone get the upper hand like this!” 

     She laughs through her nose, nails closing in like a talon when she reaches your hipbone. She grinds down against you once, but it brings more frustration than it does relief, and you're just about ready to bite your own tongue off. She's got the button of your jeans undone and the zip pulled down, but no matter how you buck your hips, you just can't shuffle out of them. The entirety of her body is a mass of insignificantly light pointy pieces, but somehow, she manages to keep you pinned down to the mattress.

     Every goddamn time. No matter how often this happens, you never learn your lesson. You hiss through your teeth, remarkably breathless, considering how long you've been on your back for, and then tug at the handcuffs once again. She lifts her brow when the bed rattles, and then tips forward, leaning in so close you're terrified she might just bite your face off. 

     There's a brief flash of her teeth, but she opts to bump her nose against yours and very nearly kisses you. Her hands slide between your back and the mattress and you suck in a breath, not falling for her trap; you don't tilt your jaw back and press your mouth to hers. No need to make this any worse for yourself. She'd just go on about how you have to abide by the _rules_ , no matter how arbitrary they always are, and keep you like that until your wrists were bruised and unwrapping your legs from around her was all but impossible.

     And why the hell would you _want_ to kiss her, anyway? She's changing her tune now, humming warmly under her breath, eyes closed, no longer controlling in the least. You relax, the muscles in your back falling slack against her hands, and you definitely don't think about her breath on your lips or the way she's rolling her hips slowly and softly against your own. Glancing down proves to be a huge mistake, because you're suddenly envying her utter abandonment of her own pants. 

     “Okay, okay,” you begin, like you actually have something to offer her. “How about we—”

     The end of that sentence mangles itself in your throat as an approximation of _JesusfuckTerezi_ , because she's raking red, angry lines down your back with nails that shouldn't be able to sting so goddamn much, considering how short they are. Your shoulder blades flex back and you arch up, feet desperately scrambling against the crumpled covers.

     When her fingertips reach your jeans, she hooks them around the belt loops at the back, and with a satisfied hum, presses her mouth down to your chest. You let out a shaky breath, but it's not enough; of course it's not, not when you've already been like that for fifteen goddamn minutes, and now all she seems intent on doing is running her tongue along every groove dug out between your ribs. She moves her head from side to side, short hair brushing against your far too sensitive skin, slowly licking her way up.

     By the time she reaches your breasts, you honestly don't know how you haven't cut clean through your wrists on the cuffs, and she has to keep reaching down to your hips just to keep you in place. But you know better than to think that the struggling annoys her; just the opposite, really, because if you didn't get worked up, you know she'd just get up and leave and _oh god_ she's sadistic enough to go and make a sandwich while you're laid out there, infuriatingly not naked enough. 

     But her tongue finally swipes across your nipple, and the sound that leaves the back of your throat ricochets through your entire body, mingling with the sharp, smooth sensation she sends jolting through you. You hear a whimper, belatedly realise that it comes from your own lips, and then just don't care as she lets the moment get the better of her and starts sucking. You keep on twisting beneath her, fumbling out her name as if to apologise for your impatience, and not a second after you abruptly realise that it's too good to be true, her nails are in your back for a second time.

     You swear when you manage to catch your breath and call her all manner of horrible things, and she draws ruts so deep between your shoulder blades that you're forced to take it all back, just to make her stop. She starts working her nails and mouth in tandem, and you're constantly being thrown between the softness of her lips and tongue, the way she just sucks against your skin, sometimes, leaving dark purple marks all around your breasts, and the burn against your back.

     You hate to admit it, and know she can tell as much without having to hear anything more than your ridiculously taut moans, but the two sensations clash together and leave you feeling like you've never needed oxygen as much as you need her fingers of her mouth between your legs _right now_. The nails at your back make you feel as if there are sparks leaving her mouth, and when she starts scratching at you less and less frequently, you're already begging her to just do it again, come on, _come on_.

     Terezi tuts under her breath in that way that tells you you've just given her a terrible idea, and by the time you've managed to blink your vision clear, she's already sitting up, back straight, pulling off her own shirt. She tosses it to the side, and your eyes don't leave her body for a fraction of a second to see where it lands. With a grin, all too aware that you're watching her, she reaches between her shoulder blades, unhooking her cherry-red bra (and _thank fuck_ you never bother with those), and sends that flying, too. 

     “What are you—” you begin, throat dry, but you're already at the point of being as compliant as hell, if it's going to get you out of these jeans. The next time she shows up with anything even remotely restraining in her grasp, you're stripping on the spot.

     Her hand comes down, gently pressing to your cheek, and with a flick her her wrist, she plucks your glasses clean off your face. You scowl deeply, but it doesn't make much of a difference to your vision; everything was kind of hazy, anyway, and she shuffles up from your hips, lightly straddling your chest, and you can see enough of her this close up, anyway. 

     She pushes her chest out, leans forward, and you've already got your mouth parted to mumble a breathy _thank you, thank you_ , as she brushes a nipple against your dry lips. Again, you tug at your restraints, but she doesn't seem to mind; she must know that all you really want to do is smooth your hands up her sides and back and across her hips and rear as you lick at her. She lets out a pleased, almost inaudible sigh as you gratefully take her nipple between your lips, and you feel her body relax against you. She's rocking again, and not simply to work you up, this time. In the back of your mind, you're vaguely aware that you're going about this too quickly, but you soon decide that, fuck it, you're not as heartless as she is. You're not going to spend forever teasing her, and the way she presses herself against you and tangles one hand in your hair, directing you in your movements, inspires an unusual bound of obedience in you.

     As it turns out, you never get the jeans off, but that doesn't stop her from slipping her hand down the front of your boxers. You groan against her skin and she tugs at your hair, which only causes you to groan all the more; it's a vicious cycle, and in the end you come with embarrassing ease, licking and sucking at her as she does you the favour of drawing her nails down across your stomach.

     When she begins to pull away, to roll off of you, you make this terribly needy sound, trying to crane your neck back towards her chest. She laughs fondly at you, kisses the corner of your mouth and shows no signs of releasing your aching wrists, and you watch through narrowed, blurry eyes as she shuffles out of her own underwear, telling you to be patient, you can put that mouth to good use in a moment.


	18. Burnt Bread

  


     “It's like a love story,” she says, “Except for the hole in your abdomen, through which I can see the shattered remains of your spine, along with the tentacles pulsating around my midsection and below. But other than that, this is absolutely textbook. Almost a little too clichéd for my liking.”   
  
     “We're also dead.”  
  
     Rose hums softly, throat like a tar pit, hands smoothing across one tentacle. It twists to face you, a crow craning its neck, spluttering out of her grasp. She reaches out for it again, and the tip wriggles between her fingers, before sliding down her palm. The  _squelch_  is only drowned out by each  _pop_  the suction pads make against her bony wrist, and she sighs, like a woman who's forgotten to pick up her dry cleaning.  
  
     You wonder how much of this is inconsequential to her.   
  
     “This affair's one saving grace.”  
  
     Sooner or later, you're going to have to destroy her. Even in death she grows grimmer still. The temporary pillar that she is, supporting the bubble around you, the Furthest Ring itself, will crumble in time, and you're going to have to let the black absorb the pieces of Rose Lalonde that remain once you're through with her.  
  
     But for now, you don't linger over the certainty the future holds. For now, you only concern yourself with carving away the particularly unruly tentacles, and holding close what's left of Rose beneath the writhing mass that engulfs her.   
  
     “It's not like a love story,” you tell her, arms draped loosely across her shoulders. You toy with your lipstick between two fingers and a thumb, ready to twist out your chainsaw at a moment's notice. “It isn't a story at all, Rose. This is our reality.”  
  
     Rose's eyes don't roll in her skull, because they're as blank as yours are. Something wraps around your ankle, wet like sopor slime, and Rose places a hand inside your cavernous stomach, fingers working against the knots of jade green scar tissue.   
  
     “Kanaya,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Would it kill you to lighten up?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, tumblr user Yoccu [drew this](http://y-occ-uri.tumblr.com/post/25765159590/in-which-kanaya-has-to-be-reassured-that-shes) and that's the only explanation I have.

     Either she's the greatest auspistice paradox space has ever known, or she's the worst. Kanaya has yet to figure it out for certain.

     She's been asleep for at least three hours when she gets the phone call. Aradia, oddly, is on the other end of the line, saying that Vriska and Terezi are moving a little too freely between disruptive and destructive, though she doesn't live anywhere near close enough to have overheard anything. But Kanaya's since learnt that it's best not to question gods, the chipper ones especially.

     Altercations between Vriska and Terezi escalate quickly, and in mostly predictable ways. What causes the argument between them tends to be forgotten almost instantly, paving the way for accusations to be shouted and shrieked, kitchenware to be shattered, and prized possessions to be set on fire.

     When Kanaya arrives, she's treated to the usual tirade (“ _You stuck a fucking blade through my back! After saying we had to stop backstabbing each other!_ ” / “ _Overruled! That doesn't change the fact that it was your turn to do the dishes tonight!_ ”), which is, all things considered, dealt with all too quickly.

     Kanaya knows well enough that her role in the relationship is to ensure that they don't kill one another, but with the way that Terezi and Vriska are arguing one moment and running their hands over each other the next, it's not difficult to imagine why she might feel that she's doing something wrong. She knows better than anyone that quadrants aren't as neatly defined in practice as Karkat likes to make them out to be, but now there doesn't seem to be an ounce of hate between Terezi and Vriska.

     And Kanaya can't help but think that it's her fault.

     They're kissing. Terezi's atop Vriska on the sofa, and while they're not being gentle, they're taking care to work around each other's teeth. Their eyes are closed, and from the way Vriska's hands have wandered to grab Terezi's butt, it seems safe to say that they've forgotten she's there. With her work for the night done, Kanaya supposes that she should leave without another word, lest she interrupt them. 

     She only makes it as far as the living room door before pausing. She knows Terezi and Vriska better than they know themselves, and there's always the chance that they'll do something to set one another off at any second. She almost made a terrible mistake in leaving then; calming them down really _was_ too easy.

     Doing the only thing an auspistice can in such a situation, Kanaya puts the needs of others before her need for sleep, and quietly sinks into one of the armchairs. The springs in the seat don't squeak as she settles down onto the cushion, but Vriska lets out a breathy gasp, lips parting against Terezi's, in the same moment, and it's enough to almost make Kanaya jump.

     But she doesn't, because she has to remain focused. Her mouth feels a little dry all of a sudden, and she's finding it increasingly difficult to take her eyes off the way Terezi has her knee pointedly placed between Vriska's legs, causing Vriska's hips to arch up every time she rocks forward; but despite all of this, she's adamant that watching over her couple is something an auspistice is absolutely entitled to do. 

     With the promise of skin on skin, mouths and hands pressing up against each other, the temptation to let emotions run free is undeniable, and she'd hate to have an empty ashen quadrant because Terezi had literally fucked Vriska to death without her watchful eye on them. And so she leans back into the armchair, reminds herself to keep breathing slowly and evenly, and crosses one leg over the other.

     Terezi catches Vriska's lower lip between her teeth, lightly, and Vriska looks like she'd yank her head to the side, if not for the face that Terezi's teeth would make ribbons of her. So she fixes her narrowed eyes on Terezi's, though it becomes more of a squint than a glare when Terezi's hands slide beneath Vriska shirt. Kanaya's stomach pulls taut as she watches the fabric of Vriska's baggy shirt ripple around Terezi's fingers, and she most certainly doesn't wonder what it would feel like to have Terezi's warm hand – or Vriska's, for that matter – skidding across her own skin.

     Terezi releases Vriska's lip, and Vriska's hips slide halfway up Terezi's shin, and she murmurs, “You're a bitch. You are a huge, unbelievable bitch.” For all the scorn inherent in her words, Kanaya doesn't feel as if there's much black sparking between them. Perhaps this is where she should speak up, to add in some snide suggestion that Terezi ought to pull Vriska's hair for taking on such a flagrant tone with her, but finds it increasingly difficult to say anything when Terezi licks at Vriska's lips, tongue swiping back and forth, over and over again.

     She hums and gasps in delight like she's just licked the clearest colour she's ever tasted, but when Kanaya arrived, Vriska wasn't wearing any of her usual blue lipstick; Terezi's reaction is all down to Vriska. Vriska's hands roam, sliding up Terezi's back. Only enough to then slide beneath her jeans, mind, fingers arching against the restricting fabric as she begins to knead.

     Terezi whimpers heartily into Vriska's open mouth, noises as enthusiastically genuine as any Kanaya's ever heard, and once Vriska and Terezi's legs are well and truly tangled, trying to slide against one another, though they're still dressed, Kanaya decides that she probably has overstayed her welcome. She grips at the ends of the arms in order to stand, and when Terezi runs her tongue in a strong, broad stroke from Vriska's collarbone to her ear, making Vriska shudder and swear, she finds it all but impossible to move.

     She's aware of how hot she's grown, and her face burns brighter for realising that it's probably been that way for a while. Realistically, she knows that Vriska and Terezi are both perfectly aware of her presence, but feels that in moving, she'll be drawing attention to herself. Drawing attention to the fact that she's been shamelessly staring at them, willing them with her every coherent thought to move things in the direction she wants them to go. 

     And so Kanaya can't leave, but neither can she stay. Terezi's hiked Vriska's shirt up, and Vriska's never worn a bra a day in her life. Kanaya's eyes don't flick up quickly enough to meet Vriska's, and her temples pound so loudly that it takes her a moment to parse Vriska saying, “Get over here, Fussyfangs.” Even with her hand outstretched.

     Some clarity comes back into Kanaya's mind in that moment, though it soon disperses when Terezi cups both of Vriska's breasts in her hands and sets out to work against them with her tongue. Vriska arches her back, runs a tongue across her upper lip and stares right at Kanaya, fingers curling.

     Kanaya could justify watching, but she can't justify this. This isn't what auspistices do.

     “We might start arguing again, Miss Maryam!” Terezi helpfully adds in, though the _m_ at the end of Kanaya's name stretches out when Terezi wraps her lips back around one of Vriska's nipples, becoming the thrum of a moan. 

     “I should— I have things to get to.” Kanaya fumbles out her words, realising that she's risen to her feet, at some point. One of Vriska's hands re-emerges from Terezi's pants, and she runs her nails across the small of Terezi's back, where her shirt's ridden up. Kanaya isn't certain how she remains on her feet. 

     “ _Kaaaaaaaanaya_ ,” Vriska whines, though it should be Terezi's name passing her lips. She curls her fingers, trying to beckon Kanaya closer, and says, “What the hell is the point of this— Jegus, Pyrope. This dumb quadrant if you're just going to ignore us!”

     A good question, she thinks, and wonders if Vriska's using her powers to make her step closer. From the hazy smile that covers her face when she closes her eyes, and then seems both surprised and pleased to see Kanaya standing above her, Kanaya soon determines that this is all her own doing. 

     Vriska reaches out, places her hand against Kanaya's thigh, just above her knee, and Kanaya's silently grateful for her inclination towards skirts. She's heard plenty about moirails who fuck and matesprits who never do anything beyond hand-holding, so why do there need to be hard and fast rules for auspisticism? 

     Terezi breaks her mouth away from Vriska's chest, and though Kanaya's disappointed in herself for having interrupted such a breathtaking display, she feels no need to voice this when Terezi kneels, creating enough room between the two of them for her to be pulled down between them.

     They undress her slowly, carefully; tentatively, even, as they explore their way across her shoulders and lips and the line of her jaw with their mouths. Vriska and Terezi undress too, until Kanaya's settled down between Vriska's legs, with Terezi knelt in front of her. Vriska's skin against her own is enough for Kanaya for a moment, especially when coupled with Terezi letting her drink down every drop of her with her eyes, but then Vriska kisses the nape of her neck, and Kanaya realises how much she's missing out on.

     “Man, short hair is _great_ ,” Vriska decides, hands slipping around Kanaya's waist, hands splaying against her ribs, as if she needs to anchor herself as she tilts her head, teeth grazing across the back of her neck. 

     “I trust—” Kanaya begins, reaching out for Terezi's wrist. She pauses, knowing that her words aren't of any real importance here, and pulls Terezi close once her fingers are wrapped around her bony wrist. She really is terribly pretty, skin awash in the dim light of the one lamp in the block, and Kanaya wants nothing more than to run her tongue over every jut and point of her body. “I trust that this will placate the two of you.”

     “Maaaaaaaaybe,” Vriska hums, grin pressing just behind Kanaya's ear. Her lips move to the shell of her ear, and she nudges Kanaya's temple with her nose, fingers spreading out across her breasts. Kanaya turns her head, doesn't mind that her neck protests at being twisted, and kisses Vriska, as out of breath as she expected. Perhaps Terezi and Vriska have been listening to the sounds of her rasped breathing all along.

     “You two smell great together,” Terezi mumbles, hands coming to rest on Kanaya's knees. From the pressure that keeps fading and exerting itself over again, Kanaya can tell that Terezi's rocking backwards and forwards, and she spreads her legs for her all too easily, letting Terezi shuffle closer. She's taken care of both of them throughout countless arguments, and now it's time to let them take care of her.

     She feels Terezi's breath brush across her cheek, before her tongue slides out, lapping at Vriska's and her own. Terezi isn't trying to interrupt the kiss, so much as just get a quick taste, but Kanaya and Vriska both moan out in tandem regardless. Vriska's fingertips tighten around her nipples, and then Terezi's tongue is between them, too, and Kanaya doesn't know how she manages to keep herself still.

     She wants to wrap her legs around Terezi and pull her even closer, but she wants to turn around, too, and straddle Vriska's hips, pushing herself up against her as she twists her fingers in her hair to deepen the kiss. But as she is, she has to make sure they're sharing her evenly, and so relies on the both of them to keep her still. 

     Vriska switches from kissing her to sucking on her neck, growling in frustration as she does so, and Kanaya thinks, knee bending as Terezi bites at the inside of her thigh, that she is going to lavish so, _so_ much attention on Vriska, just as soon as Terezi's ready to help her out. But as it stands, all she can do is mumble out, “I sincerely hope the both of you have more reasons to bicker in the future.”

     “Any excuse to meddle and fuss!” Vriska says, and in the brief break she has to take from Kanaya's throat to speak, decides to relocate by way of sucking on Kanaya's earlobe.

     One of Kanaya's hands moves back, gripping Vriska's hip, and the other keeps a firm grip on Terezi's shoulder. And though she feels her elbow bend as Terezi slowly draws closer, the whole of her still almost lifts off the sofa when Terezi suddenly has her mouth between her legs, tongue working her open. Kanaya tilts her head back sharply, narrowly avoids breaking Vriska's nose in the process, and despite the intensity of her reaction, Vriska doesn't seem impressed.

     She's been working her fingers against Kanaya's nipples with steady pressure this whole time, but she drops one hand, suddenly, fingers tangling in Terezi's hair. She tugs on it sharply, pulling her up closer against Kanaya, and says, “I know you can do better than that, Pyrope! Put some fucking effort in.”

     Kanaya was already at the point of incoherent moans, but the added pressure makes all the heat in her body rush between her legs, and Vriska seems pleased enough by this, because she tugs on Terezi's hair again, and says, “Yeah. Good girl. That's more like it.”

     Terezi stops her busywork for only as long as it takes to snap back, “Be quiet, Vriska, or I'll shut you up myself!” and Kanaya's almost grateful for the break in contact. She feels like she could reclaim some semblance of control, but when Terezi immediately gets back to work, the sensation's more intense than it was to begin with. 

     She feels a growl rumble in the back of Vriska's throat, but before Vriska can say anything, Kanaya finds the clarity of mind to intervene.

     “Settle down, both of you, or—” A pause, as Vriska bites down on her neck. “Or I'll have to separate you.”

     It works. Vriska and Terezi glare daggers at one another whenever they get the chance, but it works. With Kanaya between them, they find something other than their bickering to focus on, and as she grips one of Terezi's horns, nails sinking into Vriska's thigh, Kanaya decides that she must be a very good auspistice, after all.


End file.
